


Baker Street: Part XIV

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [29]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Army, Bank Robbery, Bets & Wagers, Blackmail, Buckinghamshire, Bullying, Edwardian Period, Embarrassment, England (Country), F/M, False Accusations, Family, Framing Story, Gay Sex, Government Conspiracy, Hampshire, Illnesses, Inheritance, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, Kidnapping, Lancashire, Lizards, London, Love, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Police, Religion, Revenge, Romance, Rutland - Freeform, School, Staffordshire, Sussex, Theft, Trains, Vampires, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 57,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1900-1901. Into a new century but the adventures still continue for the dynamic duo. There are dead schoolboys, a dying clubman, an elephant with no legs, a dirt-digging journalist, a disgusting lizard (no, not Mr. Randall Holmes this time), a dodgy wager, a doomed landowner, a devious beneficiary and a dissimulating female. Things are much as normal then – but a surprise is lurking for one of the dynamic duo and it will involve a vampire of all things.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Mrs. Hudson/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Tobias Gregson & Lestrade
Series: Elementary 366 [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dissyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissyone/gifts), [I_kill_Zombies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_kill_Zombies/gifts).



** 1900 **

**Interlude: A Twofer**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_Randall Holmes gets twice what he expected (or possibly feared)_

**Case 302: The Adventure Of The Dingley Dissimulation**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_An unpleasant young lady gets a mortifying comeuppance_

**Case 303: The Adventure Of The Winter Soldiers**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_More government misdeeds as Sherlock helps 'Captain America'_

**Case 304: Remember, Remember ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A horrible case where justice is belatedly and cruelly done_

**Case 305: The Adventure Of The Clubman's Son**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock helps a dying man with his final wishes_

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** 1901 **

**Interlude: Ding Or No Ding**  
by Mrs. Violet Malone  
_Sherlock's landlady is getting forgetful in her old age – or not_

**Case 306: The Adventure Of The Priory School**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Two dead schoolboys, a curse – and some deadly chocolate_

**Case 307: The Adventure Of The Whistle-blower ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A man seeks sanctuary, and the Reverend Rival wonders why_

**Case 308: The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_An unpleasant woman disappears – but who had any real motive?_

**Case 309: The Adventure Of The Virtuous Heir ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A bully picks on the wrong victim, and is virtuously humiliated_

**Interlude: Law And Disorder (I)**  
by Superintendent Lee Freeman  
_The plebs are getting above themselves!_

**Interlude: Law And Disorder (II)**  
by Mr. Joseph Cairns, Esquire  
_A Lancashire criminal finds himself helping the police_

**Case 310: The Adventure Of Josiah's Jumbo**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A new friend of Sherlock's and John's is close to tears_

**Case 311: The Adventure Of The Venomous Gila**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Slimy, repulsive and creepy – Randall Holmes meets his match?_

**Case 312: The Adventure Of The Blackmailed Paladin**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_John's brother Stephen Watson gets Sherlock's help – and more_

**Interlude: Call For Help**  
by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherrinford Holmes knows that now is the time_

**Case 313: The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A newcomer to an area risk being set up – and John finds heaven_

**Interlude: Designs On The Downs**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock sets about making his lover's dreams come true_

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	2. Interlude: A Twofer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1900\. Someone is caught out by the changing English language.

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

I would not have thought it possible even for him, but somehow Randall was contriving to look even shiftier as he passed over my latest bunch of masterpieces. It had been such a clever idea of my sweet little Sherry-werry that our mutual annoyance could work his way back into my good books by translating all my excellent works into all those languages that he knows (see, education _is_ good for you!). Much more useful than whatever he does sitting in a stuffy office all day. 

Which reminded me.....

“Mr. Jones says that we are coming up to a busy period soon”, he said, not looking me in the eye as per usual. “I will have less time to work on this, I am afraid.”

“That is strange”, I smiled. “Because he came round here the other day at my request, and said that he was quite prepared to give you more time off so you could get my Reading Circle's works translated as well. He said that he understood how important that was to me, the dear fellow.”

I had seen more sincere smiles on a shark. Randall was close to grimacing.

“Very good of him”, he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Also, my latest twofer is ready for you as well”, I smiled. 

“Your what, Mother?” he asked, clearly confused.

“I understand that that is what the young generation calls it nowadays”, I said airily. “Two for the price of one. You can take 'Deal Or No Deal' _and_ 'Play Your Cards Right' with you; they are about a whole barracks full of handsome soldiers who have to, ahem, pay some _very_ personal forfeits when they lose a game.”

The grimace somehow contrived to get even worse. I had no idea why; he was a very lucky boy getting all these to himself.

“Yes, Mother”, he said miserably.

Sometimes I wondered why I had had so many sons. But at least I had got Carl, Sherry and Anna right, and even Guilford was more tolerable of late. Ah well.

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	3. Case 302: The Adventure Of The Dingley Dissimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1900\. Sherlock's disaster-prone other family, the Hawke/Buckinghams, is once more back in the Fates' line of fire again, as he is employed by rival parties in the same case of one of the most unpleasant females ever to cross his path. She will however regret his involvement in things as it is not the train that takes the strain.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was fortunate that we had no callers during our 'honeymoon' upon our return from Scotland, or for that matter the two days afterwards that it took for the room to be put back to normal. However on the third day our next case arrived, and it was a most curious one. 

It was usual for someone to ask me to investigate a matter to clear them and/or to find evidence against someone else – indeed, more than one client had tried the tactics of the vile 'Mr. Robert Phillimore' and tried to inveigle me into their dark schemes thinking that I would sort their problem, only to find that my idea of justice was not the same as theirs – but this was a rare time when _both_ parties in a decidedly delicate matter asked me to intervene on their behalves. And matters were further complicated by the fact that my other family was involved – yes the Fates were once again dealing roughly with the Hawke/Buckinghams. 

It was a Monday in early October when a card was brought up by Olivia, one of the maids with whom Mrs. Malone really needed to have words about all that unseemly smirking. Even if John was still squeaking with pain at every step when he traversed the several thousand miles of the room to take the card; I may just have been feeling just a tad energetic after my second coffee that morning.

All right, my fourth. I had been thirsty! I looked at the card and frowned.

“Problems?” John asked in a broken voice.

Fortunately I was far too well-bred to smirk as he sat down very carefully at the table for his day's writing. He still looked suspiciously at me, though.

“Lord Medlow is downstairs”, I said heavily.

My love winced, and for once it was not the usual. Austin, Lord Medlow was one of the worst examples of the English nobility, a forty-something member of several London gentlemen's clubs whom I knew loosely as his wife Andrea was a friend of my mother's (although not one of her Cov.... her Writing Circle), and of course also through the occasional details about him that someone who hardly ever read the social pages of the newspapers may have passed on to me on the odd occasion that he had just happened to glance at them if the newspaper had just happened to have been open at that page when he had just happened to be passing it (ahem!). Poor Lady Andrea had made a disparaging match in every sense of the word with the result that she and her husband were now living apart, their sole child Reinelde staying with her father. John had also said that the idiot downstairs was often lampooned as 'Merry Medlow', something that he most palpably was not as his face seemed permanently set in an angry scowl, and that he was always making speeches about how the Lower Orders kept Getting Above Themselves These Days. 

It was amazing what John got from hardly ever reading those social pages. Either way I fervently hoped that I would be unable to help the unwelcome visitor downstairs.

“Can we send down that we are not in?” my love asked. “We could always slip out the back.”

I shook my head at him. One did not hide from potential clients. Although...

No.

“We had better have him up”, I said. “Hopefully we shall soon be rid of him.”

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Lord Medlow turned out to be as unpleasant as I had expected, if not even more so. He nodded to me, glared suspiciously at John and sat down without being asked. It was perhaps fortunate that he was not cognisant of the slight connection between us; my mother had Told my father to fund Lady Medlow's lawyer which, along with help from some other of her friends, meant that even if she could not obtain a divorce as yet, her husband – who had naturally refused a divorce because what woman would not wish to stay married to someone so perfect? – had been compelled to pay for her upkeep. Something that he did not complain about to every single person he met, if only because some of them were from those aforementioned Lower Orders and therefore not worth wasting his breath on.

“This is all _most_ inconvenient”, Lord Medlow said, scowling at the fire in its turn as if it was not burning brightly enough for him. “As if things are not bad enough without my having to pay for a wife that I do not even use. My Reinelde says that some boy groped her at school yet they are dithering about the whole damn affair. I want him expelled.”

“You wish me to investigate her accusations?” I asked. He snorted disdainfully.

“They are not accusations, they are _facts!_ ” he said roundly. “Yet the school says they have to actually do an investigation first!”

Incredibly he was contriving to sink even further in my estimation. That was some achievement.

“They can hardly teach Magna Carta to their pupils and then behave like some mediaeval despot when it comes to justice”, I said mildly. “I dare say that the boy's parents might have something to say about the matter .”

“Poppycock!” Lord Medlow snapped. “This boy – Harwood something or other – _must_ be guilty. My dear, sweet Reinelde says so!”

I sensed my love react to that name for some reason. I wondered why; it had not seemed the least bit familiar.

“May we know the name of the school in question?” John asked.

Lord Medlow was digging himself an even deeper hole when he looked set to ignore the question, but he quickly realized from my expression that I was wondering much the same. He sighed in a put-upon manner; the very idea of someone as far down the social scale as a doctor expecting _him_ to answer questions!

“Dingley Academy”, our unpleasant visitor said. “They are just outside a place called Cheddington, down in Buckinghamshire. It used to be just a boys' school but they opened up a second one for girls a short distance away. Fine quality education so of course I got my Reinelde in there.”

 _One can only hope and pray that the apple has fallen far from the tree then_ , I thought to myself, unlikely though that seemed. John was still tense for some reason and that worried me.

“What does your daughter say befell her?” I asked, wishing this whole interview over and done with. The fellow's _eau de cologne_ was also beginning to grate on me now although I supposed there was always the chance that it was flammable. If I were to accidentally stumble into him while he was by the fire....

John was as ever a bad influence on me. If a justifiable one in this instance.

“She was groped by this young dog at the railway station when she was returning from London”, Lord Medlow said. “Yesterday it was; she reported it at once but the school has done nothing!”

“The wheels of justice oftentimes do not move as fast as many would like”, I said. “This sounds intriguing, sir. I think that the doctor and I will indeed travel up to Buckinghamshire and make some inquiries into this matter. I always seek to apply justice whenever and wherever I can.”

He missed the slight warning there, as I had been certain that he would.

“Justice is what I pay good money for”, he said tersely. “My card. You will inform me when you have something, Make it soon.”

He nodded to me, ignored John, stood and was gone.

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I waited some few moments before looking across expectantly at my beloved.

“What is it?” I asked. “Do you know this fellow's daughter?”

“No”, he said looking worried, “but I think that we may know the boy she is accusing. Remember the Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist?”

I nodded.

“We met Lord Hawke's brother Henry, Lord Kitebrook, and poor young Master Lion Black whose father murdered his mother.”

“Lord Kitebrook told us that his own son was at school with young Lion, whom he later adopted at the boy's urging?” he said.

“Yes?” I said. “What of it?”

John looked even more troubled.

“I remember the name of Mr. Buckingham's natural son”, he said. “Hereward, like in the Adventure Of The Uffa Poniard. I know he transferred both boys away from Aylesbury Grammar after the whole sorry business because they moved to a place some way off but in the same county. I am sure that that place was Cheddington.”

Hereward. _Harwood._ Surely not more bad luck for my other family?

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My love's worst fears were also proven right in a little under two hours when my half-nephew Lord Kitebrook and his son Hereward arrived at Baker Street. Both were clearly very unhappy.

“Lord Medlow broadcast to everyone within shouting distance that he was coming here to _demand_ your services immediately”, Lord Kitebrook said glumly. “I do not suppose that you can help me as well, as it would be a conflict of interest.”

“I did warn Lord Medlow that any involvement on my part would be the application of justice, whether it served his ends or not”, I said. “It will doubtless come as a complete and utter shock to you that he did not take the hint.”

“Presumably because Sherlock did not wrap it around a brick and throw it at him!” John muttered, unhelpfully if accurately.

He really was dreadful, even if he had made Lord Kitebrook smile for the first time. I turned to young Master Hereward Buckingham, a thin blond fellow of some fifteen years of age. He had not really changed that much since the one time that we had met him during the dark days of his friend's mother's murder a few years back, but he was definitely growing into the image of his father although he was unfortunately also going through the current fashion of growing his hair far too long. A Hawke even if not by name, and my 'adoptive half-great-nephew' if there was such a thing. 

But still family.

“I am going to ask you some questions, sir”, I said. “I know that gentlemen of all ages are wont to stretch the truth oftentimes beyond breaking point, but if I am to help you in this matter I must have _all_ the facts up front. If something emerges later in the case that contradicts what you said before, then it will not just be your school who looks askance at you.”

He nodded, clearly fearful. I felt sorry for him but I had to have the truth, especially with family involved.

“Speak slowly so that the doctor can take notes”, I said, “and tell me everything that happened yesterday leading up to this unhappy incident.”

“I spent the morning working with Lion, sir”, he said. “The school gives us projects to work on in our own time and they're quite fun; mine is on trains. After lunch he went to archery club and I walked down to the station. Cheddington is a junction so we get the mainline trains whizzing through from London to Scotland, the local stoppers, and the branch-line train that goes down to Aylesbury.”

“There's a road that crosses the station at its southern end, right at the end of the platforms. The schools are situated either side of the railway, the girls to the west and the boys to the east. Of course we have nothing to do with them because.... well, they're _girls!”_

He said it as if describing some alien species. Then again, to him they quite probably were. I caught his father smiling slightly.

“I know that you're supposed to buy a platform ticket when you go in there but the station-master Mr. Brush, he doesn't mind me there taking engine numbers and helping out on odd jobs in between. I was there about a couple of hours before everything went to hell in a hand-cart. That Miss Medlow came in on the train from London; I was helping an elderly lady with her bags because she was for the branch-line train that was stood there waiting, when Her Haughtiness comes up and tells me to drop everything and carry _her_ things instead. So I told her where she could shove her bags!”

He blushed fiercely.

“Sorry, Father.”

“I have had the misfortune to meet the harridan myself”, Lord Kitebrook said. “I would have done much the same. Possibly have even thrown in a free demonstration!”

“A few minutes later the branch-line train was heading off and I was turning to go back to my jobs when she came up to me a second time”, the boy said. “The station has a couple of porters, Bill and Tom, but they later told me that they knew her and were keeping clear, so she tried to make me carry her bags. We struggled for a bit until I could get away; no-one saw us and in the end she stormed off in a huff. As you know, she went to her school and said I tried to grope her! _Her!_ I would as soon have groped Madam Damson the French mistress.”

“Madam Damson is the sort of lady who would give London's top pugilists pause for thought”, Lord Kitebrook said with a slight smile, “although in all fairness, son, I do not think that even _she_ deserves that comparison.”

The boy blushed at the mild reproof. I thought for a moment.

“I would also like to gauge what the opinion of Miss Medlow is around the area”, I said. “I do not suppose you know how she is thought of in her own school?”

“Actually I do”, the boy said. “One of the servants left her school and came to ours, and she said much the same as everyone else. If she is ever found with a dagger sticking out of her back, the list of suspects will be pretty much anyone who ever met her!”

I smiled at his vehemence.

“Can you help us?” Lord Kitebrook asked anxiously.

“The best solution would be to disprove this woman's allegations against your son”, I said. “Failure to do that will otherwise mean that people will continue to wheel out that old canard about their being no smoke without fire, which will hang over this young gentleman for many a year. However I think that her father might be persuaded to co-operate.”

Lord Kitebrook looked at me as if I were mad!

 _“Lord Medlow?”_ he asked incredulously. _“Co-operate?”_

“In a way”, I smiled. “Fortunately I have someone upon whom I can call for a rather large favour that will help.”

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The next day John and I went to Euston Station to embark on our investigations. He was clearly annoyed that I knew something and was not telling, and my smirk only made matters worse. I had got lots of angry sex out of him the night before in a futile effort to extract my plans and I was feeling very happy. If more than a little sore!

John looked at me in surprise when I handed him his ticket.

“Wolverton?” he asked. “That is a lot further than Cheddington.”

“About twice as far”, I said. “But the London & North Western Railway Company has its works there, and the general manager will I think be obliging in what I wish him to do for me.”

“Which is?” John demanded.

“You will find out soon enough!” I teased. 

He pouted adorably which was quite unfair as it only made me want to....

I tipped the guard and jammed the door of our first-class compartment. After all, these non-corridor trains were becoming rarer, so best make use of them while we could!

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John was the one limping slightly as we alighted at Wolverton and made our way to the great Works. I had telegraphed ahead to Mr. Ramsbottom and he was waiting for me. He read through the sheets that I handed him (and had not let John see them no matter how much he had pouted), then said that he could have this all ready by Saturday if that was acceptable. It was, and I paid him before we left.

We had lunch in Wolverton then returned to Cheddington where we were to meet Lord Medlow and his daughter. I had allowed John an extra slice of chocolate cake as well as my own because I had a feeling that he might well need it. Besides, he could always work out his frustrations on me later!

I was sadly all too right about Miss Reinelde Medlow. She was if anything even worse than her father, a teenage harridan who clearly thought that the more make-up she managed to pile onto her face the better (an air-tight paper bag would have been better!). Her annoying voice was not only shrill but kept wandering up and down, while her father stood behind her and looked frankly incredulous that anyone could doubt this paragon of womanhood. I doubted that even my dear mother could have created such a terrible creature in her writings......

_I was going senile before I even reached my old age!_

Miss Medlow gave me her account of events which tallied with young Master Hereward's apart from the groping (I increasingly felt that the boy had been right when he had said that he would have sooner groped the French mistress). I told both her and her father that I would be instituting inquiries in the area and she too managed to plunge further in my estimation by asking if I needed John here. What a _stupid_ question!

Talking of John we also met Miss Hart, the headmistress of the girl's school, who confirmed the general opinion of Miss Medlow and apologized for our having been dragged in. She and Mr. Flint, the headmaster of the boys' school, both believed that the girl was making the whole thing up but there had to be an investigation either way. 

Yes, Miss Hart did simper at me, which annoyed John no end.

So did Madam Adeline Damson, which frightened _me_ no end!

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John was clearly surprised that as the week progressed I did not seem to be actually _doing_ much as regarded the case. We went to the boys' school and met Master Lion Buckingham as he now was, who most graciously thanked us once more for our helping him in the case of his mother's murder. I was surprised when the boy, who was clearly a lot more observant than I had given him credit for, insisted that I should in no way hold myself to blame for his father having brought forward his evil plans and thus prevented me from saving his mother, as he knew that I would have felt that I had failed in some way. I remarked on this to John as I had been touched that such a young fellow could be so magnanimous.

I would as it happened be given the chance to pay the young fellow back for his greatness of mind. Sooner and in darker circumstances than either of us could have foreseen.

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On Friday evening I requested a meeting with Lord Medlow and his terrible daughter. I did not want to but I could always take a bath afterwards. Or a shower. Possibly even both – with John, of course.

“I may have some good news, sir”, I said. “One of the sources I applied to in London has managed to track down a witness who saw this incident. If we can obtain her testimony then we shall surely achieve justice.”

“That is excellent news, Mr. Holmes”, Lord Medlow said, looking around. “Where is she? I do not see her?”

_(Presumably he expected me to pull said witness out of thin air!)._

“That is why I had to say 'may have'”, I said. “Unfortunately there is a problem. Miss Mouseland lives down in Aylesbury and was on the local train at the time. She saw what occurred as her train was departing. However she is most painfully shy and I have been unable to persuade her to agree to testify. Indeed I have had to conduct all proceedings via telegraph as she refused to meet either myself or the doctor.”

Both Medlows gave John the sort of look that showed they thought that hardly surprising. He knew as well as I did that I had met no such person during our sole trip to Aylesbury, but he kept silent.

“She was however amenable to a short visit from the lady in the case”, I said, “so I have provisionally arranged for Miss Medlow to visit her tomorrow. Although I doubt that she would be able to face any sort of proceedings, I am sure that she would agree to write a short statement stating what she saw if she was approached by another woman.”

“Reinelde will go and see her, then”, Lord Medlow said firmly.

His daughter was clearly of mixed emotions; annoyed at having to actually put herself out and yet pleased that her evil schemes might be about to reap a reward. And she was right in one aspect of that. She was most definitely going to get what was coming to her!

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The following day John and I went down to Cheddington station where Miss Medlow was going to take her train to Aylesbury. I had provided her with an address in the town the day before. It was a false one but that did not matter. She was not going to get anywhere near Aylesbury.

“Her father is not seeing her off?” John asked, surprised.

“I engendered a minor familial crisis for him which led to his having to rush back to London”, I smiled. “Bearing in mind what is about to happen, I wished for her to have no witnesses to what will for her be a short and most painful journey!”

“What is going to happen?” John asked at once as we watched the pestilential woman board the train. 

“The train is actually a special that I hired from Mr. Ramsbottom”, I said. “The real branch-line train has left for Aylesbury fifteen minutes ago. Come, we had better hurry.”

I led the way outside to our cart and we set off at a steady trot.

“Why the rush?” my love asked, surprised.

“We have to get somewhere nearby”, I said, “and we need to beat the train there. But it will not depart for another five minutes and it is only a couple of miles. You will find some clothes in the back.”

He looked round at the two sets of folded overalls behind us.

“Railway workers?” he asked.

“Yes”, I smiled. “Someone is about to meet their Waterloo!”

I suppose that that just about deserved an eye-roll.

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We soon arrived at a small but smart wayside halt, a single wooden platform with a well-kept waiting-room. There was a solitary siding with three rather battered trucks in it and the station name-board read 'Dingley Halt' with a smaller notice beneath the larger one advising 'For Dingley Girls' School: Passengers for the Boys' School should alight at Cheddington'. John looked at me curiously but I gestured for him to follow me in donning our overalls before we hurried across to the siding. From there we could just see over the platform level as we rested on our spades.

A few minutes later the train that we had left behind at Cheddington came chuffing down the tracks, putting out far more steam that was necessary. It juddered to a stop at the little station and the guard alighted, walking along the train yelling “sorry folks, engine failure. We'll have to set back to the junction.”

Miss Medlow stuck her coiffured head out of a window and scowled at the guard's retreating back, then at a porter who failed to open the door for her. Managing that immense task herself she alighted and bustled after the guard, tapping him on the shoulder.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded haughtily.

He turned to look disdainfully at her.

“Shut up, you silly old cow!” 

She recoiled in horror. Beside me, John gasped. I bit back a laugh.

 _“What did you say?”_ she managed eventually.

“I said shut up, you silly old cow!” he said, rolling his eyes. “You deaf as well as stupid?”

She turned on the porter who had come up to see what had happening.

“Did you hear that?” she demanded.

“Ye Gods, you're an ugly bitch!”

She screeched in horror, staring between the two men

“This is an _outrage!_ ” she stormed. She looked round for assistance and espied a man painting the fence along the back of the halt. “You are a witness to this!”

“Sorry love, too busy trying not to throw up over that excuse for a dress”, the fellow grinned. “They paid you to wear it, I hopes!”

I really wondered if she was going to faint. Still there was probably a doctor somewhere nearby. We were not that far from Cheddington.

“I _demand_ to see the man in charge!” she shrieked.

A smartly-attired station-master with a shock of fair hair came out of the waiting-room and she dodged round the other two men to waylay him.

“Sir, your staff here are brutes!” she snapped. “How can you just....”

“Can't believe any woman can slap on _that_ much make-up!” he interrupted. “Talk about a painted pig!”

“Right away!” the guard yelled as the home signal changed to clear.

The harridan spluttered indignantly, but clearly realized that she was in imminent danger of being left in the middle of nowhere with men who were for some reason prone to express their dislike of her somewhat directly. She hurried back to the slow-moving coach, opened the door and clambered inside.

We had just about managed to stop laughing by the time we got back to Cheddington.

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_“This is an absolute disgrace!”_ Lord Medlow stormed when we met him on Cheddington station an hour and a half later. “I shall be writing to the Railway Company and demanding that these men be sacked _immediately!”_

“I most definitely think that we should find out what has caused such strange behaviour”, I said. We were awaiting the imminent arrival of the branch-line train which was returning from Aylesbury. Not of course the one that the harridan had been on; that was safely on its way back up to Wolverton with several very well rewarded London & North Western Railway employees.

“That guard was _evil!”_ Miss Medlow sobbed, dabbing her eyes and making several tons of make-up run. “He must be the first to be made to pay!”

“We shall soon see”, I said comfortingly. “You described him as a tall, blond gentleman with a scar along his cheek?”

She nodded vigorously, probably jarring loose even more make-up. The two-coach train came to a halt at the platform and she led the charge towards the guard's compartment, followed closely by her father. A short dark-haired guard got out and checked his flags, then looked confusedly at us.

“May I be helping you sirs, madam?” he said courteously.

“That is not him!” Miss Medlow protested. “Who are you?”

“John Stedham, madam”, the guard said, clearly perplexed. “I work this route. Is something the matter?”

“Where is the other guard?” she demanded. Mr. Stedham looked confused.

“Madam, this is but a short branch-line” he said. “I am the only guard, and have been on duty all day.”

Miss Medlow was clearly perturbed by this but rallied quickly.

“We must go back to the station”, she said. “The first stop where I was so foully and brutally attacked; I do not recall the name.”

“That seems very sensible”, I agreed, pleased as I had expected to have to suggest that myself. “I am sure that we can find out what is going on there at least. It cannot be far.”

We all piled into the train and once the locomotive had run round we were on our way. After a short journey the train came to a stop and for once Miss Medlow was first out.

“'Dingley Halt'!” She said triumphantly. “This is the place; I remember a fellow painting the fence at the back.”

“The fence has not been painted”, John pointed out. She (unsurprisingly) ignored him.

“Was this where it happened, Reinelde?” the harridan's father asked. She nodded.

“The guard insulted me first, then the porter, then some idiot painting the fence, and then the station-master. They were all just _horrid_ to me!”

“But the guard was nothing like what you said”, I observed. “Still, it must indeed be here. During my investigations I had cause to get out at the only other stop on this line, Marston Gate, and that has a large brick station building so is nothing like this place.”

“Let us see what this rogue of a stationmaster has to say about the way he runs this place!” Lord Medlow said grimly.

He led the way towards the waiting-room followed by his daughter. We were nearly there when the station-master himself emerged, a short, unprepossessing fellow with a bald head. Miss Medlow baulked.

“Sir!” her father barked. “We are here about the way you and your staff insulted my daughter this morning!”

The fellow just looked confused.

“Staff, sir?” he said. “In a place this size? Apart from Old Ben who does porter and tickets, you're looking at the staff!”

Lord Medlow spluttered in rage.

“There was a train stopped here this morning”, he said, slowly as if he were talking to an imbecile, “and sent back to Cheddington. While it was here my daughter was insulted. _Four times!”_

The station-master looked at Miss Medlow. I could almost hear him thinking that he was only surprised she had not made five. As would I have been.

“Really?” he said, the doubt in his voice palpable. “What d'you mean sir, a stopped train? Line's been running perfectly all day.”

Lord Medlow spluttered some more.

“Are you accusing my daughter of being a liar, sir?” he managed at last.

“She does seem to have mistaken a guard _and_ a station-master, as well as two seemingly non-existent railway workers”, I said dryly. “Also the fence that she said was being painted has very clearly not been. I am afraid that when it comes to the reliability of her testimony, a fair-minded person may well wonder.”

“Reinelde would _never_ lie to me!” Lord Medlow said hotly.

“She lied to you about the assault by Master Buckingham”, I said.

“Prove it!” Miss Medlow hissed.

“Reinelde!”

Lord Medlow stared at his daughter in horror. For the first time I saw doubt in his eyes. Now was the time.

“I thought it highly unlikely that someone as unpleasant as yourself would have anyone to confide in”, I told the pestilential female. “People like you repel others once they discover your true nature, which in your case is ill-concealed in the first place. But like all young girls you need some outlet for your feelings – _and I considered it highly probable that you would keep a diary!”_

The look of horror on her face was probably more enjoyable than it should have been. Then again, no.

“You... you... you cannot....” she managed. I smiled knowingly at her.

“Another of my contacts in London is an excellent thief”, I said. “He broke into your school – he says that their security is most excellent, by the way – and obtained it for me. In it you boast about your 'success' at having put one over on those boys, although some might say that maliciously and cruelly ruining a young man's life is hardly a fair use of that word. Lord Medlow, a copy of the offending page certified by a lawyer is waiting for you at your hotel.”

“Why a copy?” Lord Medlow asked.

“Because I very much fear that the likes of your daughter may one day graduate to much worse than what she has done so far”, I said. “I shall keep the original. Should she persist in this behaviour then I shall hand it to the newspapers!”

“That would ruin me!” Lord Medlow said, aghast.

“Then kindly curb your daughter's disgraceful behaviour!”

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“How did you do it?” John asked later as we began our journey back to London. I grinned.

“Mr. Ramsbottom's men added some temporary fencing, then played the roles of the rude railwaymen and a few extra passengers.” 

“Do you think there is any hope that she will improve?” he asked dubiously.

“Very little”, I said. “The important thing is that Lord Medlow will have to publicly withdraw the accusations made by his daughter, which everyone who hears about this mess will see as an admission that she lied. Young Master Buckingham's name will be cleared.”

“Thank the Lord!” he sighed.

“Thank Sherlock”, I said. “But then I suppose that I can be God-like at times.”

One of these days he would roll those pretty hazel eyes of his right out of his pretty little head. So I locked our compartment and proceeded to prove the substance of my claim.

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Major-General Sherlock had made Lieutenant-General before we reached Watford Junction!

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Postscriptum: I was to be proven all too right about Miss Medlow who did not change her ways at all. Two years later she committed an indiscretion that forced even her father to succumb to the inevitable and disown her. She then made an attempt on his life so that she might inherit his money, but was caught and rightly sentenced to hang. Frankly the world was a better place without her.

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	4. Case 303: The Adventure Of The Winter Soldiers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1900\. Out of the blue (or at least out of the most garishly-coloured house in the whole British Empire!), Mr. Harley Quinton asks for Sherlock's help – for which a certain family member of the detective will rue the day!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

At this relatively late point in my career as a consulting detective I had thought that surely there had to be few things out there which would surprise me any more – but the telegram that had come this morning was definitely one of them.

John squinted at me from across the table. 

“You have not touched your bacon”, he said, visibly alarmed. “Or your coffee. What on earth is wrong?”

I frowned. I was not that predic.... all right, maybe he had a point there.

“Much”, I said, scowling at my plate for no particular reason. “Mr. Harley Quinton asks us to come and see him as soon as we are able.”

I knew from the gulp the exact moment that my beloved placed the face to the name. Mr. Harley Quinton, man about town, someone who knew far too much about everybody and, from John's particular viewpoint, lived in a house that looked like an advertisement for a paint factory that had gone horribly, horribly wrong. 

“Any chance of my buying some dark glasses?” John said hopefully as he passed me two of his four rashers.”

“His tastes are not _that_ bad”, I insisted, slicing up my first rasher.

He just looked at me. All right, the fellow's tastes _were_ that bad. But for Mr. Harley Quinton of all people to actually ask for help from anyone – that did not bode well at all.

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I could feel John's horror at the exterior of Mr. Quinton's house, which seemed to have somehow achieved the impossible and become even more garish since our last visit. Thankfully there was a thick screen of trees around its medium-sized front garden otherwise the neighbours would surely have forced our host to tone things down a notch or ten. An Englishman's home might be his castle but not if the exterior 'boasted' more than a hundred different colours!

The gentleman himself greeted us and this time he had coffee and miniature chocolate triangles. I had suggested to John after our last visit that serving pieces of chocolate with drinks was wrong in some way and had received a look of such utter and complete betrayal (plus a quivering lip that even Benji would have been proud of!) that I had not been able to prevent myself from falling about with laughter. Fortunately that had been before we had picked up a box of chocolate éclairs that he had actually cooed over from the shop that, the saints be praised, now did deliveries as far as Baker Street, so he had forgiven me.

I did not comment that someone was already on their third triangle before the servants had withdrawn. It looked like we would be making a(nother) detour on the way home!

“I have a rather unusual request for you today, gentlemen”, Mr. Quinton said with a smile at someone's chocolate over-eagerness. “Something that I might have attended to myself had I not thought that you would enjoy it rather more.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“It concerns one of your irritating brothers. The smarmy one with the slappable face.”

John nearly choked on his fourth triangle. We had fortunately not seen Randall for some little time, for which both of us were extremely grateful even if Mrs. Malone occasionally bemoaned the lack of target practice. I should probably have tried to dissuade her from shooting at my own brother but..... somehow I had just never had the time.

John directing her to a place where she could buy her ammunition more cheaply had, perhaps, been pushing things ever so slightly. But then it was Randall, so perhaps not.

“What has he gone and done _this_ time?” I sighed.

“Have you heard of 'Winter House'?” Mr. Quinton asked.

I shook my head and looked hopefully at someone who was now on his fifth triangle and had chocolate around his mouth already, the grub. 

“It is a place in north-east Hertfordshire set up by young Lord Edward Barnes”, he said, blushing slightly. “He is the second son of Adam, Earl of Richmondshire; the fellow has nine children by three different wives all of whom divorced him yet he is rumoured to be looking for number four. Lord Edward's brother James was seriously wounded in the Boer War; the government came in for a lot of criticism because some men died during the winter campaign and the newspapers said that it was due to incompetence in getting supplies to them rather than enemy action. Lord Edward sold his old house and purchased one large enough for himself, his brother and five of his brother's former colleagues who were also injured. It has since expanded to take some six more men; several of the capital's philanthropists are funding the venture.”

Mr. Quinton smiled knowingly.

“There is as you might have guessed rather more to it than the newspapers have revealed”, he said. “Matters are complicated in that Mr. James Barnes has become enamoured of an American mercenary soldier who was fighting alongside him, a handsome young buck called Mr. Steven Rogers who is a few months his junior. Your Mr. Godfreyson would likely pay for his services; I believe that the men jokingly referred to him as 'Captain America' for his rather overt patriotism but there are many worse faults in a man; one only has to look at the aforementioned sibling of yours, Mr. Holmes, to see many of them in action. The vultures of the press were at least partly correct in their speculation; their commanding officer was instrumental in delaying those supplies because he disapproved of their 'lifestyle choices' and some of his men died as a result.”

I shook my head at the narrow-mindedness of some people these days. For all that later generations would come to portray the Victorians as puritanical in the extreme there was in fact much more tolerance than in later generations, provided that people were discreet (see under Oscar Wilde for examples of how not to). It was not much to ask, really.

“I rate Lord Edward as a friend”, Mr. Quinton said, “as we share the same tendency to regard humanity from the outside, as it were. He is a good fellow apart from his tendency to go on about his fishing holidays and the joys of standing in a river holding a stick for hours on end to no apparent purpose, so the recent articles about him in the 'Times' – of all places – drew my attention.”

“What articles?” I inquired.

“The early coverage of his praiseworthy venture was much as you might have expected”, our host said. “But two more recent articles by an unpleasant fellow called Mr. Jonathan Simpson have been not only negative, but have implied several things about my friend that I Do Not Like.”

I could hear the capitals there. I wondered idly if this Mr. Simpson had any life insurance; I was sure that Mr. Quinton could make any target of his regret the day that they became one. Not the day after as they would have been unlikely to have seen it.

“Apart from the obvious, why did you say that _we_ might find this case particularly interesting?” I asked. “Also where does my annoying brother fit into all this?”

“I was moved to make some inquiries about Mr. Simpson”, Mr. Quinton said. “Your Miss St. Leger was as helpful as always, and she found out that shortly before penning these scurrilous articles he visited a certain government office in Whitehall in which he was richly rewarded for certain 'services'. I know that he spoke to a certain Mr. Randall Holmes.”

I saw at once where this was heading. The general election called by Lord Salisbury and which had indirectly prompted our recent Scottish case had just started; in those days voting was spread over a longer period, then about a month. The newspapers had derisively (if accurately) termed it 'a khaki election', suggesting that the prime minister was aiming to increase his majority after the conclusion of fighting in the recent Second Boer War. As things would turn out the prime minister would be proven all too wise to have gone for an early vote; guerrilla warfare at which the Boers excelled would drag the conflict out for a further two years and, incidentally, be fundamental to another of our cases.

“Surely Lord Salisbury himself is not involved?” I asked dubiously. 

Mr. Quinton laughed.

“After your mother's reaction to her fourth son's behaviour of late”, he said, “his superiors made clear to the over-perfumed annoyance that any further such acts on his part would result in his seeing the Thames from an unusual and terminally wet angle within twenty-four hours!” he said firmly. “Lord Salisbury might be prepared to stand up to Russia and Germany, but not an angry Lady Aelfrida Holmes. In that I fully concur with him!”

“Or she might read him one of her stories!” John muttered. He really was terrible at times, especially when I could not glare at him because he knew damn well that he was right!

“The publicity around Winter House was very damaging to the government”, Mr. Quinton smiled, “as it implied that they were not doing enough for our injured soldiers. That is true – the supply arrangements for out troops at the far end of the Dark Continent have been abysmal – but they did not like it being pointed out, so your brother's department was charged with making sure that the venture fails, hence Mr. Simpson's critical articles. I expect their next move to be the targetting of some or all of the venture's backers, which is unacceptable. I do not wish for Winter House to fail.”

“Then it will not”, I said firmly. “A question. Is this Lord Edward Barnes single?”

Mr. Quinton smiled at that.

“Yes”, he said. “That too is something of an issue; he is as I am sure the good doctor knows the Earl of Richmondshire's _second_ son, but his elder brother Lord Edgar is a complete rake and shows no inclination to settle down. Lord Edward has been linked to several local ladies, sometimes at his father's behest and sometimes at his own, but none have caught his eye as of yet. James is the fourth son and the last from his first marriage; the intervening one Cedric is married and his wife is expecting their first-born next February. That fellow is a likeable nincompoop but harmless enough, so one can only hope that their child inherits its character from him and its brains from its mother!”

“Does Mr. Simpson know about Mr. James Barnes's relationship with Mr. Rogers?” I asked.

“Surprisingly he does not”, Mr. Quinton said, “although it cannot be long before he finds that out. That is another reason that I wish for the matter to be dealt with sooner rather than later.”

“I suppose that the articles by this Mr. Simpson implied that Lord Edward's interest was more horizontal than philanthropic?” I hazarded. Our host nodded.

“Utterly fanciful!” he snorted. “There was even a sideways hint that Lord Edward and his brother were committing incest, although it was cleverly worded to avoid any legal repercussions.”

“So we must deal with both Mr. Simpson and Randall”, I mused. “I wonder who should suffer the most?”

It was really uncalled for of a certain chocolate-eating someone to raise his hand and wave it about like that. As if I did not know which way _he_ would vote!

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We did of course detour via a certain bakery shop on the way back to Baker Street and someone pouted most adorably when I refused to let him eat all of the Triple Chocolate Slices that he had purchased right there in the cab. 

I had other plans for that last slice.

“Tomorrow”, I said when we had got back to Baker Street, “we shall call on our friend Mr. Latimer. He works as a writer for the 'Times' as well as selling his body at Sweyn's excellent molly-houses, and he may know something of his fellow journalist.”

“Why not this evening?” John asked.

I grinned, even wider when I saw his sudden alarm.

“I have something else lined up for this evening!”

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“Here is the deal”, I told John some time later. “All you have to do is write the dozen or so lines from Shakespeare's Macbeth, Act One Scene One, on that note-pad, and once you are done and it is of course legible then you shall be allowed your slice.”

He was still breathing heavily as he gazed blearily at me. I had used out four-poster frame to hoist his legs up so his gorgeous arse was presented to me, and moved the pillows down the bed so as to support his head. A note-pad and pencil lay next to him and I had applied his leather harness. With the most resistant movable cock-ring that we had (so far).

The thought struck me that if I did kill him through sex I might have some explaining to do to various people, starting with Mrs. Malone. Then again it would look wonderful on his headstone; 'sexed all the way to Heaven'

He picked up his pencil and note-pad and, I noted, was trying to write quickly. He had not seen the jar of spicy unguent that I had placed between his raised legs, and I began to finger him open. The wails and moans as I did so were wondrous, and not for the first (or hopefully last) time I gave thanks to the builders of 'Glendower Mansion' for employing such thick walls. 

I knew from the way he was writhing ineffectually that my deliberately avoiding his prostate was driving him mad, and we had arranged a signal beforehand that if he raised either of both of his arms then we would stop. But despite his rapidly increasing breathing he was trying to write, although I doubted that his end-product would be legible. Time to step it up a notch.

I pressed down hard on his prostate and he whined in agony. The cock-ring clicked over one notch; it was designed to yield slowly as time went on so as to avoid the user rupturing themselves. As I pressed down mercilessly it clicked a second time as well. John's impressive cock was almost vertical now.

I elicited a wonderful full body shudder when I placed our newest pleasurer at his entrance. He knew from the feeling even as it rubbed against his entrance that this was the curved one, which would not so much pleasure his prostate as reduce him to a broken pile of goo. Yet when I hesitated he paused in his writings to nod at me. Gently I worked it in, revelling in every happy cry, every moan, every tremble.

The cock-ring clicked a third time, and only seconds later a fourth. I smiled demonically, reached forward and lightly ran a finger up the length of his leaking cock.

“Come!” I hissed.

He did, coming apart in glorious cries of ecstasy as he obtained his relief and I milked him through it until he had nothing left. I removed the pleasurer and untied him before easing him back up the bed with his pillows. He stared blearily at me.

“You did not even get to the hurly-burly”, I said. “Still, I think you deserve...”

He was already asleep. My very own sleeping beauty!

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As well as contacting Miss St. Leger to put certain plans in motion, I had indeed sent round to Mr. Godfreyson's molly-house to ask if I could borrow Mr. Latimer for some time when he was free. A tall blond fellow in his early thirties and always debonair in appearance he was actually a distant cousin of our dear Queen, descended as he was from one of the illegitimate offspring of King George The First (which inadvertently made him an even more distant cousin of myself), although he looked and acted entirely English. Which given the current status of Anglo-German relations was probably just as well.

“Simpson?” he said when I asked him about my target. “Ghastly old fellow, a real rat even in a field full of vermin. We know him in the business as one of the worst X.Y.Z's around.”

“The worst what?” I asked, confused.

“What we call a journalist without principles”, he explained, “which in our profession are scarce enough as it is. Someone who will go to the end of the alphabet or do over anybody to get that top story. He's always keen to steal work off others if he gets the chance.”

“Where might I find this fellow?” I asked.

“Try the 'Dog & Duck' in Westminster”, Mr. Latimer advised. “He goes there a lot because he knows other journalists meet with politicians in the place as it is just along from the Houses of Parliament. Several of my colleagues make a point of checking to make sure that he's not around whenever they have a pint there, as do I.”

“Does he write for the 'Telegraph'?” I asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“Only rarely”, he said. “He mostly does for the 'Times', a rare blot on that noble newspaper's otherwise decent reputation. He's a poor writer but he knows one of the owners, otherwise I'm sure they would've ditched him by now.”

“Most useful”, I said. “You have been very helpful, Edward. Thank you for your time.”

I gave him an envelope which had the usual; transport costs, payment for his time and something extra for the information. Sweyn had often said that given all that John and I did for his business his boys would have helped me for free if asked, but I knew that Mr. Latimer in particular had a widowed mother, a wife and three young sons to support. Every penny helped.

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Miss St. Leger came round the following day, with what was rather unfortunate timing as our kilts had just been returned from the cleaner. Which reminded me; I really needed to ask Mrs. Malone to have a word with her maids. It really was terrible the way that some of them smirked so much these days! 

Our visitor looked at our tartan attire and then at us before shaking her head.

“You two!” she sighed. “You are terrible!”

“Actually I was rather good!” I grinned. “Especially when I did that thing with....”

“No details!” she said firmly. “Remember, I warned you about stopping bacon deliveries here! I could extend that to coffee!”

I mock-zipped my lips, earning myself a quite unjustifiable eye-roll. 

“Luckily I do have a contact who works at the Thunderer”, she said, “and who can make 'amendments' to stories when called upon. He costs the earth but as this is for the annoying lounge-lizard I am guessing that you will not be worried about that.”

“A correct assumption”, I said. “Now we just need to bait the trap.”

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The following day I again secured the services of Mr. Latimer who along with Devon from the house (who I picked because I knew that he was saving for his own house, and not because like Benji and Lowen he too leered at me whenever he came round!) went down to the 'Dog & Duck' to talk about a certain news item that I wished Mr. Simpson to take an interest in. Mr. Latimer told Devon, to the very visible interest of someone who was almost leaning over the partition at one point, that Mr. Reeves, a minor government minister, was in the habit of visiting Winter House for certain, ahem, horizontal reasons and that Mr. Latimer hoped that a servant of that gentlemen who he knew would confirm this. 

Mr. Latimer came round later that day to let us know what had happened, and John was able to treat him for a slight sprain that he had obtained in his work (my love spent more time dealing with the various molly-men and their families than his paying patients these days, but he loved the philanthropic nature of that work and as I have said before few if any of them could have afforded a doctor). The bait had been taken; Mr. Simpson had rushed off to Mr. Reeves's house where he had 'just happened' to encounter that very same servant (an actor friend of mine) leaving the place. An encounter which, for the unpleasant 'X.Y.Z.' Mr. Simpson would be a most expensive one.

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The very next day John and I had a visitor to Baker Street, to wit Mr. Edwin Jones. Unbeknown to him he pretty much owed his recently-acquired position as Randall's superior to my actions following the Flaxen Saxon case. He was then in his late forties and a frankly unprepossessing fellow although I knew that in his sort of department looks could be deceptive. Miss St. Leger had opined that his main plus point was that he was not someone that she longed to push into the Thames with lead weights attached (she had for some reason looked at me as if expecting me to discourage such feelings; John had been too busy looking for a hardware catalogue to say anything).

I had some bad friends!

“Good morning, Mr. Jones”, I said brightly.

He scowled at us both.

“It is _far_ from a good morning, sir!” he snapped. “Have you seen the newspapers today?”

“The doctor has, I am sure, read the social pages”, I snipped, earning myself an adorable pout for which someone would pay dearly once our guest was gone. Twice, if he was lucky.

“Mr. Reeves has been accused of visiting a brothel out in the country!” Mr. Jones said angrily. “The prime minister is _furious_ , what with the election ongoing. He was expecting to increase his majority considerably but this may ruin everything. He expects the newspaper to print a full retraction....”

“Is the accusation not true then?” I asked innocently.

“Certainly not!”

I looked hard at him. Like him I knew full well that Mr. Reeves was indulging in some most insalubrious practices which, if the newspapers dug even slightly into his other activities, were all too likely to come out. Activities that he had been indulging in when the actor impersonating him had been seen entering Winter House, thus making it somewhat difficult for him to establish an alibi. Or at least one that his wife would be happy with. 

“He was... elsewhere on business”, our visitor said with an impressively straight face. “His whereabouts cannot be divulged for reasons of national security.”

I just looked at him. At least he had the grace to blush.

“Either way the publicity will be _very_ bad”, I said. “Even if the newspaper can be prevailed upon to print a correction before many more votes are cast, there is always the danger that they may decide to investigate him or even his family to see what else he may be up to. Plus of course many will wheel out that old canard about there being no smoke without fire, which given governmental tendencies to behave in inappropriate manners is I am afraid to be both expected and deserved. I fear that Lord Salisbury will surely want someone's head for this. There is nothing like a forced resignation for lancing a political boil, and politicians are always more than happy when someone else pays the price for their mistakes. _Especially_ when it is not a politician from their own party.”

I looked pointedly at our visitor. He visibly shuddered.

“Of course”. I said with a bright and totally false smile, _“I_ might be prevailed upon to help.”

He looked warily at me. We had only ever had indirect dealings before of which he had been unaware of; I had alerted him to Randall's sufferings over having to translate so many of Mother's 'masterpieces' and he had obliged by visiting her and promising to give his unwilling underling all the time off that he needed. Randall had sent me a telegram bemoaning that fact, which I had had mounted for posterity. Because.

“Why would you do that, sir?” he asked warily.

“Every man has his price”, I said. “I happen to know a little of the gentleman in charge of this Buckinghamshire establishment, although we have never met. If say, it were to emerge that the government had been secretly negotiating with him to _considerably_ enlarge his noble venture so that more of our brave men could receive the help that they need..... I am sure that he might be persuaded to tell the newspapers that that was the _real_ reason for a government minister being in the area, and that the subterfuge was merely to try to avoid it being seen as an election gimmick since the talks had started well before the election was called. Then maybe certain newspapers might decide to make this a lead story. Before the election.”

Mr. Jones's wariness had only increased.

“What is your price?” he asked.

“One that I think _you_ will not mind paying at all”, I said, “as it is of no cost to you personally. Indeed it might almost be said to benefit you, at least in the sense of what I believe the Germans call _schadenfreude_.”

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A few days later we had three visitors to Baker Street; Lord Edward Barnes, his brother James and the American Mr. Steven Rogers. All three were pleasant-looking young men in their mid-twenties; Mrs. Malone had very kindly arranged for us to have a ground-floor room as I knew that Mr. James Barnes in particular had difficulty walking and would have found the stairs a challenge. I did not fail to note how close and attentive Mr. Rogers was to his friend.

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, Lord Edward smiled. “The government has paid for us to triple the size of the house facilities so that more of my brave brother's friends can be helped back to health. It is quite wonderful!”

“Lord Salisbury was doubtless most pleased with the article in which you publicly thanked him”, I said, “especially with so much voting still to take place. Almost everyone has come out of this well, all told.”

“What about that horrible fellow who wrote those articles?” Mr. Barnes asked. His voice was hoarse and John handed him a whisky. Mr. Rogers was now all but hugging him.

“I did say _almost_ everyone”, I said. “Mr. Simpson is out of a job. Newspapers are not for some reason inclined to employ people who pass on misinformation and who do not check their facts. Such people expose them to the sort of monetary actions that could ruin them.”

“May I ask how you did it?” Lord Edward asked.

“I knew of Mr. Reeves's unpleasant behaviour”, I explained, “which unfortunately for him will come out after the election is done. I arranged for an actor to pretend to be him and to be seen by Mr. Simpson entering Winter House. Another actor disguised as a servant had already tipped him off as to the reasons for his country visits, and he could hardly state that he spent the weekend in a brothel instead. His wife is a large lady and she would not have been best pleased – nor will she be when she finds out.”

“You did not say what you did to your idiot brother”, John protested.

“I arranged with Mr. Jones for him to be re-assigned to a case of potential terrorism”, I said airily.

They all looked at me in confusion.

“Certain documents handed to the government suggested that a company owned by one Mrs. Roberta O'Malley had links to Irish terrorists”, I said. “A highly topical issue just now. So copies of all letters sent to and received by her have been obtained by Mr. Jones, and Randall has been instructed to go through each and every one, line by line, to see if there is any evidence of such. He will be required to make thorough notes on all of them.”

“That does not sound like much of a punishment”, John said, clearly disappointed. I grinned.

“Mrs. Roberta O'Malley is the lady who collects what might be called 'incoming works'”, I smiled.

They all looked at me in even more confusion.

“As you know”, I said to John, “my mother not only writes the most terrible stories and, incredibly, has a club for what you term 'her fellow literary criminals', but has now extended her activities to encouraging those who enjoy her work to write their own efforts and then post them to her. She calls it 'fan fiction' which, considering that fan is an abbreviation of fanatic, may be a shade too close to the truth. Mrs. O'Malley's company receives hundreds of letters each month, many of them containing scripts. Some, even more incredibly, are according to Miss St. Leger worse that those of the inimitable 'Fidelia Raleigh'.”

Mr. Barnes went even paler. Even Mr. Rogers looked alarmed.

“The Fidelia Raleigh who wrote about what the Ancient Romans really did in the Temple of Vesta?”† the American gasped in horror. “I would rather face a horde of rampaging Zulus than read anything like that again!”

“At least you did not get the one about the pirates and the sex-mad octopus‡!” Mr. Barnes said, somehow nestling in even closer to his friend. “Every time I saw the pirate flag back at the barracks, I wanted to throw up!”

“The very same”, I said, offering up silent thanks for my having 'missed' those particular horrors along with a firm determination to continue 'missing' them by as wide a margin as possible. “Randall will have to read and then make notes on _hundreds_ of such tales. It might even keep him out of mischief for a time.”

I could see John wondering if that was perhaps just too cruel. I could also see the exact moment half a second later when he reached the inevitable conclusion, and smiled broadly.

Not. A. Chance!

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Postscriptum: Winter House was a great success and eventually Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers took over the running of it. The government duly won its election although not with the greatly increased majority that it had been hoping for. Best of all, Randall was reduced to sending me letters asking for help on cases as, he claimed, he was too busy with 'certain other matters' to come round. I do not know how John and I coped with the _terrible_ disappointment.

We coped.

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_Notes:_   
_† 'The Temple of Doom'_   
_‡ 'On Stranger Tides'_

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	5. Case 304: Remember, Remember ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. At a time when Sherlock was looking to avoid dangerous cases so that he could slip easily through to his retirement (and all that sex) with John, he is asked to prevent an attempted murder – and to stop history repeating itself. Unfortunately the warning may have come too late.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This made Sherlock's and John's list of the twelve most horrible deaths in all their cases. At number three.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

John was doing it again. That annoying habit of smirking for no good reason. If he kept it up he would be keeping it up all night, the bastard! I could not abide people who smirked too much.

I supposed that least he had one case in that our visitor on this All Hallows' Eve was one Mr. Guy Greenstead, and a guy he looked. It was a relatively calm if foggy autumn's day, yet he looked a mess. Although arguably he had just cause.

“A death threat, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed, almost throwing a letter at me. “In England, and in this day and age!”

“Calm yourself, sir”, I said mildly. “If I am to help you, we must start by finding out just who might want you dead.”

Oh dear. A definite hesitation before his barely credible answer.

“No-one”, he said firmly. “Everyone in south Staffordshire loves me!”

I wondered if removing someone so clearly delusional from the world might not be a bad thing after all (I was to come back to that particular thought). He could not be the owner of a place called 'Holbeche Hall' without having made at least _some_ enemies. Life simply did not work that way.

I looked at him expectantly. He cracked before I reached ten, which was I suppose impressive as I had rated him an eight.

“They say that I drove my cousin Tom Tellus to quit the area for the New World”, he said. “People do well over there. They should be thanking me!”

Like far too many clients he had started from a low base yet was still losing points hand over fist. As John so rightly said some people were beyond saving, or at least beyond my saving.

“Did your cousin do well over there?” I asked.

“I have no idea”, he said dismissively. “His family had already gone over so he should have been fine. But this letter from his son, newly arrived in Plymouth, says that 'he knows what I did' and that 'Guy will perish at Holbeche this time'.”

I looked expectantly at John. As usual he did not disappoint.

“Holbeche House was where many of the conspirators in the Gunpowder Plot fled after Guy or Guido Fawkes was found in the cellars under the Houses of Parliament”, he explained. “They were all either captured or shot dead in a shoot-out after they had foolishly tried to dry the gunpowder with them in front of an open fire. Guy himself was tried in London and executed a couple of months later.”

That explained his smirking at this second Guy. Honestly, he was still managing to get worse. There would be Painful Consequences for that later, no matter how much he would enjoy them!

“I see that this saucy fellow signs his own letters”, I said. “Have you any idea why Mr. Peter Tellus might wish to threaten your life, sir?”

He was quicker with his denial this time, but again there was a slight hesitation. This was one of those times that I empathized with John having to treat patients who only gave him half their symptoms, yet still complained if they got a wrong diagnosis. 

“No sir.”

“He says that you will meet justice on Guy Fawkes's Night”, I said, “which is next week. That gives us some time to institute inquiries. I shall see what I can do, sir.”

He did not look reassured and barely thanked me before leaving.

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I had a bad feeling about this case, and like John those tended to be accurate when I least wished them to be. I sent round to Miss St. Leger – she had actually now purchased shares in that Nairn shop that I had introduced her to, provided she got a regular supply of their iced biscuits! – and asked her to initiate several lines of inquiry. Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Something was very wrong here.

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It was the morning of the day that, for reasons I have never quite been able to fathom, the English celebrate the fellow who actually _failed_ to blow up the Houses of Parliament (I could see that if the current crop of politicians went on much as they did, a day might come not too far into the future when people might celebrate one who succeeded!). John and I were headed off to Staffordshire to see what we could do when we had an early morning visitor. Miss St. Leger.

“This has to be one of the few times I ever regretted finding out something”, she said, taking a seat. “That includes asking you about your Scottish ventures and you mentioning Dingwall!”

Ah yes, the taxidermy case. A decade and a half on, yet I still could not see stuffing on my Sunday dinner-plate without feeling nauseous. Fortunately I had managed to mention this case to Mother just before our Continental trip in 1887, and it had been Mycroft who had had to listen to the resulting horror which Mother had for whatever reason relocated to an area of the East End, 'Albion Market'.

“What did you find out?” John asked.

She winced. 

“Mr. Peter Tellus did indeed return to England two weeks ago”, she said slowly, “and yes, he did send a threatening letter to Mr. Greenstead.”

“What about Mr. Thomas Tellus?” I asked.

“His family went to America first and he was all set to follow them”, she said. “But when he said he was leaving, Mr. Greenstead refused him his last pay packet. There was an argument.”

Now I was really worried. But it could not be that ba.....

Suddenly I saw it, and was horrified! That was why the normally hyper-efficient Miss St. Leger had been so unaccountably slow.

“That argument happened in early November”, I said.

She nodded slowly.

“And Mr. Thomas Tellus never made it to join his family.”

She nodded again.

“They received a telegram from him claiming that he was headed to Australia”, she said. “Almost exactly six years back. Then a few months ago Mr. Greenstead sacked one of his elderly servants. They contacted Mr. Peter Tellus and went down to Plymouth to meet with him.”

“Oh God!”

John looked at me in confusion.

“What is happening?” he asked.

“Murder”, I said. “And I doubt that we will be able to stop it.”

Miss St. Leger looked at her watch.

“I think”, she said, “that you are already too late.”

Now I understood the delay. She had known, and if I had known I might have felt compelled to.... ugh!

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One of the many wonderful things about John was that he knew when not to ask me for information. Which was good, because I was desperately hoping that for once all the facts were wrong and that what I thought was happening – had probably already happened – in Staffordshire was incorrect. Even though I was sure that I was right.

We took the London & North Western Railway from Euston and soon reached Wolverhampton, where we had to wait for a slow Great Western branch-line train to amble its way to Himley Station. That was the nearest we could get to Holbeche House and a cab took us the last mile. It was early afternoon but the skies were grey and leaden, and I was not surprised to arrive and find the main bonfire already lit. My heart sank anyway.

We were greeted by Mr. Harry Greenstead, an affable young fellow of about twenty years of age who John had told me was the owner's eldest son. I felt for him; he was totally innocent in all this yet the blow would fall on his slender shoulders. Life was unfair at times.

“Father said that he had gone to consult you”, he said, “but I cannot find him anywhere. We have had to start the fire without him.”

I looked out of the window where the fire was fully ablaze now. There was no chance of stopping it. A familiar figure loomed along the flames, the guy being burned to mark the great day.

“I have something very painful to tell you, sir”, I said gravely. “I would advise that you have a strong drink to hand when I do so.”

He looked at me in alarm but duly poured himself a large drink as well as ones for us. Also large ones, which I knew that we would need.

“What is it?” our host asked anxiously.

“Your father told me of a cousin of his, a Mr. Thomas Tellus whose family left for the United States and whom he had planned to follow. He never made it. When he came to collect his final and necessary pay, your father refused it to him.”

“That sounds like Father”, the young man admitted.

“There was an argument”, I said. “I do not know the precise details, but your father struck Mr. Tellus down and killed him.”

“How can you know all this?” Mr. Greenstead asked dubiously.

“Because as they so rightly say, the truth will out”, I said. “This happened exactly six years ago on this day, the fateful November the fifth. Your father came up with a seemingly foolproof way to avoid detection. He and a servant smuggled Mr. Tellus's body out and placed it inside the bonfire on the lawn.”

The young man stared at me in horror then out of the window, the flames flickering on his ashen face. He had got it. I nodded.

“Your father tried to cover up his foul deed by sending Mr. Tellus's family a telegram purporting to come from him, in which he stated that he was headed to Australia”, I said. “It worked – but a few months back your father dismissed an elderly servant. Unbeknown to him, this servant knew what had happened – there are few secrets downstairs, as we all know – and he wired the dead man's eldest son Mr. Peter Tellus in the United States. Not unnaturally he came over here, met the fellow and obtained the exact particulars. You father had killed his father, so he would do likewise.”

The new owner of Holbeche Hall finished the last half of his drink in one go. I felt terrible for him; he so did not deserve this, but then as my beloved John knew the sins of one generation were all too often visited on another.

“Earlier today Mr. Peter Tellus confronted your father and overpowered him”, I said. “It was easy for him to drag him over to the fire and replace the guy with him, as your father had swapped the young man's father for another guy those six short years ago. Justice may be delayed, but it is seldom denied.”

The young man poured and downed a second drink, then looked levelly at me.

“If I push this case”, he said coolly, “then everyone will know that my father was a murderer.”

“It would hardly be in Mr. Tellus's interests to keep quiet if he were brought to trial”, I agreed. “An English jury might well refuse to convict on a count of murder, although I think they might on a lesser charge. If he is caught; I am sure that he is already on a boat back to the United States.”

“My father killed his father”, Mr. Greenstead said dully. “He.... no, I cannot pursue a man for doing exactly what I myself would have done. He will be thousands of miles away ere long and that will be that. Let the blood flow no further.”

“You are a wise young man”, I said, “much more so than many who have lived longer but learned much less. I am sorry that we brought you such ill-tidings sir, but it was better that you know now rather than publicly learn the truth some time later.”

“Thank you”, he sighed.

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John held me all the way back to London.

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	6. Case 305: The Adventure Of The Clubman's Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1900\. A dying nobleman fears that some of his family may be resorting to evil ways in a fight over his estate. And the dynamic duo have a chance encounter in a bookshop with someone that they met on a previous case.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Many of the 'new' cases that John added to the Sherlock canon in later years and/or that I recorded in my notes for posterity answer one of the most common questions we received about our work, namely why those we helped usually only appeared once. This was to be another case when someone from a past case made a re-appearance – unfortunately for John, who had really thought to have avoided them. 

For at least the next six years.

Talking of the love of my life – and when is it ever not a good time to do that? – it was John who brought this case to my attention as it arose through our friend Sir Peter Greenwood. Like John the baronet had few regular patients these days (except my father of course whose 'intermittent deafness' he vouched for from time to time to save him from Mother's dreadful stories; whatever Father was paying him it was nowhere near enough!), but he had also developed what might be termed a niche market of his own, namely the clubmen. It was a curious coincidence that that terminology arose from the same conflict that would feature indirectly in our next case, to wit the English Civil War.

John says that what with the state of schools these days I have to cover what everyone who has had a proper education should know, so the original clubmen were local men in the seventeenth century who, tired of their localities being drained repeatedly for supplies by one or sometimes even both parties during the English Civil War, banded together with what weapons they could find (such as clubs) and threatened to attack any army that came near. They were potentially an important third force in the conflict and served to speed the end of the war once they saw that the New Model Army was disciplined while King Charles's unruly forces were palpably not. One of the reasons that Prince Rupert was unable to hold out longer at the siege of Bristol was that the clubmen were acting as parliamentary auxiliaries.

The modern clubmen were very much from the other end of the social scale to their predecessors, as they were rich gentlemen who had been diagnosed with a fatal illness. These unfortunate gentlemen would settle a large sum on a London club of their choosing and then spend their remaining days there (the baronet had once quipped to John that at least this spared them the attentions of all those relatives who 'suddenly remembered' their existence just as they were about to shuffle off this mortal coil, something that we had seen in several of our cases!). I believe that Sir Peter's frankness gave these men at least some peace in that they could meet their Maker knowing that everything was in order if the end came sooner rather than later.

One such clubman was Mr. William Letherbridge, a rich businessman who hailed from just outside the town of Lyndhurst in the New Forest, Hampshire. He had made all his arrangements and moved in to the Marengo Club for when his time came, but Sir Peter had told John that certain recent events had unsettled him and the fellow wished to see us both as a matter of urgency. Since this was one of those times when we knew that the urgency was all too real we agreed to attend immediately at the gentlemen's club, as he would have found the journey to Baker Street too much for him.

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Mr. William Letherbridge was very clearly a dying man, something that even I could see. It was even more sad in that although he was barely a couple of years older than John he was but a shell of a man, whatever was destroying him was clearly winning the battle. He had a set of rooms on the ground floor of the building to himself and his young valet, and he bade us welcome.

“I do not know if you can help me, gentlemen”, he said, clearly having difficulty with his breathing as his words were accompanied with a definite wheeze. “I had thought to have matters all sorted but....”

He ground to a halt. His valet gently folded his blanket around him; the room was stifling hot this chilly December day but the poor fellow looked frozen to the marrow.

“Would you like me to tell them, sir?” the young man asked quietly.

Mr. Letherbridge nodded. His valet finished arranging his blanket and sat down.

“My name is Mr. Peter Carter”, he said, “and I have been Mr. Letherbridge's valet for the past four years much of which has seen him fighting this long and, we both know, final battle. Your colleague Sir Peter Greenwood was kind enough to be both honest with his assessment as to how things stood, and to recommend this as a far better way of dealing with things than my master's cold home down in the Forest.”

He paused. He looked (I thought) absurdly young for such a post, but then compared to the ruin of a fellow next to him anyone would look young. He was in his late twenties, self-contained and quietly sure of himself. Doubtless exactly what his master needed now. I thought back to Mr. Lysander Wilson from the Abernetty Case, now happily engaged to Miss Wilhelmina Abernetty and on his way to becoming a Victorian gentlemen; the two young gentlemen were similar in appearance but this fellow's innate energy was dulled, although that was most likely in respect for his charge.

“Everything was readied by the middle of last month”, the valet continued. “The Railway Company were particularly helpful in allowing a carriage right onto their platform at Waterloo to collect my master, and we were settled in here almost before we knew it. But last week I returned to Lyndhurst to get some books, and while I was there I found something amiss.”

“I should explain that my master has four sons; Magnus, Graham, Stephen and Timothy. Unfortunately Mr. Magnus was, so I was told, a headstrong young fellow and about a month before I started he had left home to marry a young farmer's widow on the other side of the county. My master did not approve of the match but his son was firm; he did not see his future running the Pinehurst estate. My master duly disinherited him although he did choose to maintain a channel of communication, and the occasional letter plus Christmas cards were exchanged. My master also kept what they call 'a weather eye' on his eldest son.”

“I would like to ask something there”, I put in. “How did _Mrs._ Letherbridge react to this?”

The valet looked warily at his master who nodded. Even that slight movement taxed him.

“She was not happy”, the valet admitted (I admired the way that his face conveyed rather more than he was saying). “It was the opinion of my fellow servants that she focussed her dislike on her new daughter-in-law for what she regarded as her 'stealing' her eldest son, but also that she had always preferred her second son who, sad to say, was most like her in character. Irrational, but in my experience people often are when emotions become involved.”

 _He had a wise head on those young shoulders_ , I thought,

“My master had asked me to call in at the farm and convey the latest state of affairs to Mr. Magnus”, the valet said. “I found things to be in a very poor state. I know that farms close down pretty much over winter but there had been a run of animal deaths and crop yields from that year had been dreadful. They were thinking that they might have to sell up.”

I caught his tone of voice. There was more to what he had said there.

“Was there a reason for their run of bad luck, did they think?” I asked.

“Mr. Magnus said no”, the valet frowned, “ but his wife later told me in private that she thought that the owners of the farm next door may have been responsible. It is a much larger place and wraps around their farm on two sides. All she knew is that it is owned by someone up in London and that they put their own people in there last year. She also said that things had only started to go wrong after the place's change of ownership last year.”

“I should be able to find out who those unobliging owners are”, I said. “What are the names of these farms, please?”

“The big one is called Waller's Farm”, the valet said, “and Mr. Magnus's is Cheriton Field Farm. Both lie on a famous Civil War battlefield, he said.”

John and I knew each other too well. I sensed the slight tension in him at that name even though he did not show any outward sign of it. I would have to ask him about it later.

“As with so many of my investigations, it may be a coincidence or it many not”, I said. “Coincidences do happen, and when cases peter out as they very often do the doctor does not publish them as people do not like to be bored in their reading. I promise you both that I shall make some immediate inquiries into this matter and I shall go down to Hampshire if needed. We shall be sure to communicate our findings to you here.”

The valet hesitated. I looked at him and nodded.

“Yes, I knew that you would need to know that”, he said. “My master rewrote his will twice after Mr. Magnus's departure from the house. The first time there was a trust fund established for my master's widow; as is custom she could not touch the capital which would revert to the estate on her death. The residue was split equally between the three younger sons.”

“Yet in a relatively short time your master has felt the need to rewrite his will”, I said. “What happened to bring that about?”

The valet looked nervous but answered.

“My master recently came to have some concerns over Mr. Graham, his second son”, he said. “Also, I am sorry to say, over his own wife; as I said their characters are similar. My master found that his wife had been buying items of jewellery and then passing them on to her second son, presumably in an attempt to circumvent the provisions of the will; he is very much her favoured son as he is the only one as yet unmarried. It happened twice, before we instructed the bank to refuse any further transactions and to strictly limit her account. My master then rewrote his will so that two-fifths each will go to the younger sons, Mr. Stephen and Mr. Timothy, to counter this 'theft'. His wife is as far as I know unaware of this second change; I arranged for it all to be done through a London lawyer whom we met away from the house in Lyndhurst. She only purchased large items intermittently, presumably in an effort to avoid detection.”

“Are any of your master's sons aware of the second will?” I asked.

“They are not”, the valet said. He hesitated before adding with a shy smile, “but I would give sixpence to be there and to see all their faces when they find out!”

His master also smiled at that.

“I promise that I will give this case my most urgent attention”, I told him.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Letherbridge managed. “Time is indeed of the essence!”

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Time was, and we stopped on our way back to Baker Street so that I could send telegrams to the requisite people. I would have been a poor detective had I not spotted my friend's sudden thoughtfulness but I said nothing. Instead we returned to lunch at 221B after which I led him to our bed.

“Sexy times?” he said hopefully as I began to undress him.

I smiled but said nothing until I had completed my task and allowed him to do the same to me. We then lay quietly on our huge bed and I noted how he instinctively wrapped my frame around his own. I did much the same when I was uneasy, I knew.

“Now you can tell me what upset you so back there”, I said quietly. Our rooms were so isolated that I could in all probability have shouted, but there was something about his mood that deserved a quiet approach.

“Cheriton Field was one of the key battles of the English Civil War”, he said just as quietly. “It only got forgotten because of bigger and even more important battles soon after – Marston Moor, Lostwithiel, Second Newbury, Naseby – and because parliament pretty much blew the opportunity¶ for a decisive victory that it had given them, but it was still their first major win even if it was a close-run thing.”

“I do not think that you would be that upset about a battle fought over two hundred and fifty years ago”, I said, “even if you supported the losing side.”

“Some history books still call in after the nearby town that got burnt afterwards when the Royalists retreated”, he said softly. “The Battle of Alresford.”

_Oh._

“You are thinking of your son”, I said. “Is the house nearby?”

He shook his head.

“At least ten miles”, he said. “Stoke Fratrum is some way north of the town while Cheriton is a few miles to the south. But Ivan must visit Alresford from time to time; it is his nearest town.”

Master Ivan Leeds, now some fifteen years of age and the result of John's one night with his mother, now Mrs. Thomas Leeds. We had visited Hampshire to solve the poisoning of that pestilential woman's husband's grandfather Colonel Warburton which had turned out to be the work of her brother-in-law George, rightly since dispatched to Hades for his actions. With only a little prodding from me John and... she had reached an understanding that he was allowed to place money in a bank account for birthdays and Christmas and that this, along with the truth, would be given to young Ivan on his twenty-first birthday now less than six years away. John never spoke of his son – I knew that he felt ashamed of his actions even though at the time he had had no way of knowing if we would be together again – but I knew that he often thought of the boy.

“You do know that there was nothing to forgive?” I asked. He smiled wanly.

“Stop with the mind-reading!” he protested half-heartedly.

“Never!” I chuckled. I pulled him closer and we just dozed there, two middle-aged men naked as the day we were born and loving each other to bits.

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I had impressed in my telegram to Miss St. Leger the need for urgency, but even I was surprised when she came round that same evening.

“A fairly amateur job”, she said as she handed us a sheaf of papers. “The farm was purchased through a city agency that does this sort of thing and they received a cheque from a bank in Birmingham. They in turn had an arrangement with a bank in Ringwood, not far from your client's home in Hampshire.”

I looked at the names on the top of the first sheet. I was not the least bit surprised. Nor, I suspected, would Mr. William Letherbridge be when I told him.

“What about the problems that the oldest son has been facing on his farm?” I asked.

“A company that sells animal food and fertilizer and which 'kindly' donated several tons of experimental versions of both to their neighbours which 'just happened' to spill over”, she said, curling her lip. “Again a short chain of concealment but it all led back to the same two people. What will you do?”

“Normally I would wish to confront these villains”, I said. “But in the circumstances I must bow to my client's needs as he needs to know this as soon as possible. I shall send a telegram tonight to let him know all is resolved and that I will be round first thing tomorrow morning to give him all the details.”

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We called in at the Marengo Club at nine o' clock sharp the next morning and were shown straight into Mr. Letherbridge's rooms. Even in so short a period he seemed to have declined. 

“It is as you feared, sir”, I said softly. “Your wife and your second son have been attempting to ruin your eldest son, as they believed that you and he were working towards a _rapprochement_ that might have rendered one or both of them worse off. They had learned that you were considering seeing a lawyer, although they are as yet unaware of your second will. By use of poisonous chemicals supplied by a company owned by your wife and her purchase of the adjoining farm, both undercover, they have brought him to his knees.”

Mr. Letherbridge sighed.

“I always feared that Graham might turn out like his mother”, he said, wincing at the effort of all those words. “Mr. Holmes, what can I do?”

“I have a course of action to recommend to you”, I said. “Because there is no time to lose I have, perhaps a shade presumptuously, taken one or two steps to help matters on their way....”

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Three days later we had a visitor at Baker Street. One look at Mr. Carter's face told us what had happened. He had brought a letter from his master. His late master.

“He fell unconscious late last night”, the young man said miserably, “and was pronounced dead this morning. He asked me to give you this, sir.”

I took the dead man's letter and read it.

“He asks that the doctor and I attend the reading of the will”, I said. “In Alresford.”

John tensed but fortunately our visitor did not notice it.

“Why there?” Mr. Carter wondered. “I might have thought for Mr. Magnus but he has been disinherited, and both Mr. Stephen and Mr. Timothy live in London.”

“Perhaps because it is also about halfway between London and Lyndhurst”, I suggested. “There may also have been some sort of _rapprochement_ ; he definitely mentions four sons in his will. He also encloses a cheque for my services and includes a sum for the maintenance of yourself for one month, as well as expressing a request that I help you find work if you wish.”

“He did mention about the money”, Mr. Carter said. “He had me get his lawyer round and I had to sign something to say that I accepted what he had left me.”

“Possibly a codicil”, I said. “That was good of him; he did exactly what I advised. We shall go to the reading of the will and you shall come with us, sir.”

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It was eight days later and there was rather a large crowd in a back room of the Market House in Alresford. John and I had travelled down with Mr. Carter, who had spent most of the journey marvelling at our first-class compartment. Across from us were three of the brothers; the eldest Mr. Magnus and the two youngest Mr. Stephen and Mr. Timothy. Mr. Magnus was very clearly the only one who spent any time outside as he was bronzed and muscular while his brothers looked like two City businessmen on a day out, although they were I knew pleasant enough fellows. To our left sat the other brother Mr. Graham who was tall, spindly and decidedly unkempt, and next to him was his mother who John said that even he could detect was clearly the one who had eaten all the pies. To the right was the lawyer Mr. Edward Green, a balding fellow in his fifties who was visibly very nervous.

He had every reason to be.

“This is all rather irregular”, the lawyer began, “so I must ask you not to jump to conclusions and to wait for _all_ the facts before you say anything.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mrs. Letherbridge demanded at once. “Do I not get my money?”

Built like a roundhouse, conniving _and_ unpleasant, I thought. The full _trifecta_.

“The late Mr. William Letherbridge added a codicil to his will in the days before he died”, the lawyer said. “He was very thorough about it; three of the top doctors in the city of London attended and each declared him to be of sound mind, signing a declaration to that effect. I mention that fact because I feel that some of you may consider contesting his changes. I am obliged to tell you now that the measures he has taken have all but guaranteed that such an attempt would fail.”

The atmosphere in the room had changed to one of barely suppressed tension. The five Letherbridges looked at each other uncertainly.

“On the surface the new will _seemed_ much the same as the old one”, the lawyer went on. “Mr. Letherbridge acknowledged four sons....”

“Wait a minute”, Mr. Graham Letherbridge cut in. “What the hell do you mean, _four_ sons?”

“I must first explain the distribution of assets before I cover that”, the lawyer said. “First the Pinehurst estate, Mr. William Letherbridge's house and lands therein, comprised slightly under thirty-two per cent of the estate's final value. That was left wholly to his eldest son, Mr. Magnus Letherbridge....”

“What the hell?” Mrs. Letherbridge yelled.

She and her second son had both shot to their feet. Mr. Magnus looked more than a little surprised too, as I had known he would. The lawyer turned to him.

“Your father revoked his disinheritance of you as one of the changes that he made”, he said. “He had his reasons....”

“I for one cannot _wait_ to hear what they were!” Mrs. Letherbridge said hotly. “We shall definitely be challenging this _outrageous_ piece of tomfoolery.”

“It is your choice as to how you spend your own money”, the lawyer said. “But you may care to know that upon advice your late husband also inserted what is called a 'challenge clause'. You are required to lodge a bond of five hundred pounds† _prior_ to any challenge, and you will lose that money when you are unsuccessful.”

“I shall get way more than that from the estate!” she said scornfully.

“Which brings me to the next change”, the lawyer said smoothly. “Your late husband made a slight adjustment to the sum that he bequeathed to _you_ , madam. It is now precisely one farthing‡.”

Mrs. Letherbridge opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out. Mr. Graham Letherbridge sniggered then moved swiftly away when she turned on him.

“So the rest us get what, Green?” he asked. “Twenty-odd per cent each?”

“Not quite.”

I doubt that those two little words had ever been used to quite such deadly effect. Mr. Graham Letherbridge's eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean, 'not quite'?”

“Any challenge by your mother would be certain to fail, as her late husband had acquired proof that both you and she were attempting to destroy Mr. Magnus Letherbridge's farming business.”

_”What!”_

The eldest son shot to his feet and stared angrily at his sibling who moved round to hide behind his mother, something which was quite easy. I would have hidden too, facing that look from the man-mountain.

“Your mother and brother purchased the neighbouring farm and used that in an attempt to ruin you”, the lawyer said. “Had it not been for the swift actions of Mr. Sherlock Holmes here, they might well have succeeded.”

“But at least I get my share of the loot, right?” Mr. Graham Letherbridge asked.

“You do not”, the lawyer said firmly. “As well as revoking the disinheritance of his eldest son, Mr. William Letherbridge also disinherited his second son. You. You receive the same amount as your mother, to wit one farthing. Your father wished to leave both of you absolutely nothing, but accepted legal advice that a nominal sum would make any challenge even less likely to succeed.”

Mr. Graham Letherbridge rose to his feet and glared angrily around at us all but words clearly failed him and he stormed from the room. Even better his ghastly mother wobbled off after him, presumably headed to the nearest food-stall. The three remaining brothers all breathed sighs of relief once they were gone, then smiled at each other.

“Wait a minute”, Mr. Magnus said, frowning. “You said at the start that it was all shared between _four_ sons. So Father cannot have disinherited Graham.”

The lawyer looked decidedly awkward as did his two younger brothers, I came to their rescue.

“When I informed your father of what had happened”, I said, “I took the liberty of asking both Mr. Stephen and Mr. Timothy here for their urgent attendance. As both are possessed of wives about to either augment or initiate their lineages their father understood that they were somewhat preoccupied, but they came at once. Naturally they too could have been in a position to challenge this will but, given the circumstances, they both very firmly decided not to.”

“You were as much a son to him as any of us”, Mr, Timothy told Mr. Carter. “I am sorry that Father did it the way that he did, but given his health we both see that there was no other way.”

He and his brother both looked at Mr. Carter. who was clearly all at sea.

“I do not understand”, he said. 

“Your late master, at my suggestion, practised a slight deception on you”, I said gently. “When he said that you were receiving an inheritance, what you were actually signing was not a codicil. _It was a certificate of adoption.”_

Mr. Carter gasped.

“It was the best legal way, sir”, Mr. Green said, “otherwise your own inheritance might have been successfully challenged. You are the late Mr. Letherbridge's son, entitled to just over twenty-two per cent of his estate and, may I say from what my late client told me of your care and tenderness towards him over recent years, you are far more deserving of that title than his former second son.”

“Quite right too”, Mr. Magnus said. “I am only sorry you could not bring me in on this whole thing, but with Father the way he was I can see that speed was the main thing. Welcome to the family, Peter.”

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Once all the paperwork was sorted we all left the building, the younger Letherbridges to return to the Forest (primarily to ensure that their mother did not try to rifle the house before she left) and Mr. Magnus to his farm whither he was taking Mr. Carter who had never seen one before so would spend a week or two there before returning to London. That was also good in that it would give me time to secure a post for him in London if he wanted one.

We had only passed through the town of Alresford briefly during our first memorable visit here and as we had just missed one train to London we decided to explore it a little. John told me that it had suffered a major fire during the early Georgian period which had led to the vast majority of the buildings being of the same epoch, giving the town a pleasant uniform look. 

John and I were in a bookshop when it happened. We were browsing at the back when a handsome young fellow entered. I froze in horror.

It was John! John as he must have looked not long before I had first met him! It had to be....

I nudged my friend and he looked at me curiously before following my line of sight to the newcomer. And then he did the worst possible thing.

_”Ivan?”_

The boy looked up and a pair of familiar hazel eyes stared at us from across the books.

“I am sorry”, he said courteously. “Do I know you gentlemen?”

John had gone bright red. I rushed to his rescue.

“We visited this part of the world a little over ten years ago”, I said carefully. “It was concerning your great-grandfather's..... illness.”

I could see the boy putting two and two together. He was old enough to have been told about his murderous uncle and what had happened back then.

“You are the gentlemen who cleared my father?” he said.

That was probably the politest way of putting it, I thought. The boy had a career path in the diplomatic service if he could come out with things like that at short notice.

“We are”, I said. “We are down here on another investigation. I trust that your parents are well?”

He smiled. Again, just like John.

“They are both away visiting one of her relatives who they cannot stand!” he said. “I am left in charge of the house although of course I have Ken – the steward – to turn to if needed.”

“We are sorry to have missed them”, I said insincerely. “You were only four then and have certainly become a man since.”

He puffed himself up a little at that just like.... someone was looking suspiciously at me.

“Thank you for your efforts back then”, he said. “Perhaps one day you might come down when my parents are here?”

 _Perhaps Hell will freeze over_ , I thought as we exchanged pleasantries before parting.

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Because John was not the sort to ask, I suggested that we spend the evening after this encounter enjoying some manly embracing. He looked at me suspiciously but as I had correctly fathomed he was not up for sexy times after such an encounter. So we duly cu.... held each other in a manly manner.

I did not smirk _that_ much.

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Postscriptum: Mr. Peter Carter took to farm life so much that his new big brother appointed him to run both Cheriton Field Farm and the adjoining Waller's Farm, which he did very well. Less successful were Mr. Graham Letherbridge and his mother who both ended up in gaol after they did indeed try to make off with everything that they could carry from the estate, only to be caught by the younger Letherbridges and the local constable. The boys – all four of them – very generously agreed to secure them a one-way passage to somewhere else in the world and I can only hope that that somewhere was far, far away.

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_Notes:_   
_¶ The battle hinged on the disastrous decision of Colonel Sir Henry Bard to lead his small group of men forward despite being told not to. This lost a fight which the Royalists had up to then been winning. After the battle the two parliamentarian armies closed in on the Royalist capital of Oxford, but divisions between their leaders meant that they split their forces and the king was able to defeat both armies._   
_† About £56,000 ($70,000) at 2020 prices._   
_‡ About 11p (14c) at 2020 prices._

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	7. Interlude: Ding Or No Ding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1900-1901. There are few certainties in this world, but some things can still be relied upon. Or at least wagered on.

_[Narration by Mrs. Violet Malone]_

There are not many advantages to being in the older generation, so I had learned to take my victories when I could. Like today when the clock ticked slowly round and the bell to Room Five remained stubbornly silent, to first Jo's, then Kit's and finally Chem's disappointment. Finally it was half-past twelve which meant that I was going to be closest to predicting when our most famous occupants would emerge after their New Year and for that matter New Century celebrations last night. 

“Maybe they went elsewhere?” Kit said hopefully.

I shook my head and held out my hand to my nephew, and he sighed but handed over his coins.

“Betty admitted them at a quarter to midnight”, I said, “so they made it back safely enough. I only hope that Mr. Holmes leaves enough of the doctor to make it at least some way into the twentieth century. He looks worse every time these days, and he is not far short of fifty.”

“Terrible thing, getting old”, Jo said with the sort of innocence that I did not believe for a minute. 

“It is”, I agreed. “Poor Chem needed a rest after the second time last night. Or perhaps I should say, this century.”

My niece and nephew looked at me in horror!

“Auntie Vi!” Jo exclaimed. “Way too much information!”

I smiled. Grossing out the next generation; another advantage of being older.

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In fact Room Five's bell did not ring all day because, as I well knew, Mr. Holmes had come back with enough food for the day and told me that he and the doctor were not to be called on for anything short of an apocalypse. Or an asteroid striking his unpleasant lounge-lizard of a brother dead, for which he would stop to send out for some celebratory food. So I had known there would be no bell today.

I had somehow forgotten to tell the others that. Old age, you know. The memory is one of the first things to go, but as Chem found out twice last night, it was so far the only one!

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	8. Case 306: The Adventure Of The Priory School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1900-1901. Murderers come in all shapes and sizes – and in a case which starts with an unnerving experience for Watson, who would have reason to kill two English schoolboys?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Foreword: 'Lost' villages like Martinsthorpe are very common across England. Around the start of the sixteenth century the rising price of wool coupled with the ongoing Black Death pushing up the wages of peasants made replacing local villages with a shepherd's hut and some sheep much more profitable, especially as the landowners doing it were usually the same people who sat in parliament and framed the laws that should have prevented it but which were mysteriously never applied in their own cases. England's smallest county of Rutlandshire, at 147 square miles about twice the size of the District of Columbia but with a population of a little over 20,000 (1936), has over the centuries lost Alsthorpe (or Alstoe), Hardwick, Horn, Ingthorpe and Pickworth, all wiped from the map because of the greed of Man.

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In the dying days of the old century (and before Sherlock's memorable way of welcoming in the new one!) we had received news of several additions to friends and family. First there came news from Sussex that Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Forrester whom we had helped on two occasions were now the proud parents of a son, another Cecil. Then my brother the giraffe suddenly sprung on me that I had acquired another nephew; he and Henrietta had applied for adoption and had expected a long wait, but a sudden opportunity to take on an orphaned baby boy had presented itself and now there was a second Stephen Watson (the boy would probably grow far too tall and have terrible hair but I was pleased for them anyway).

Sherlock's own already convoluted family tree was made to look even more like a family thicket by two additions in the short gap between Christmas Day and the New Year. On Boxing Day his half-nephew Lord Harry Hawke had his third son who took his father's name, which given the ill-luck that had beset that family over the years gave us both a little relief as it further secured his lineage. And on the very last day of the year Sherlock's former sister-in-law Mrs. Rachael Trevelyan and her silent husband Blaze became the proud parents of a boy Austol, although the birth was a difficult one and they were advised to have no more children especially given their ages. Sherlock's sort-of nephew Tantalus came round to see him and was proud as Punch to have acquired a half-brother, which was all well and good.

In those relatively halcyon days, we could have no idea just how timely these births were to prove to have been.

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Looking back I find that if I include the undocumented cases of which there were well into the thousands, Sherlock and I undertook cases in each of England's historic counties at one time or another even accounting for the 'tidying up' of the boundaries during our time together. However some of them we visited but once and this was the only case that we ever undertook in England's smallest county, Rutlandshire. As with several others it began with suspicions of a supernatural element but it ended..... well, read on.

It was finally the twentieth century but the news was gloomy; our dear Queen had as usual spent Christmas on the Isle of Wight at her beloved Osborne House but had been taken ill and had not returned to London as yet. A cold, bitter chill hung over the land and I wished heartily that the skies would just snow and get it over with. Instead the clouds hung leaden and heavy over the land, draining the colours from the frozen landscape beneath them. 

I had not been pleased when the summons to our next case had caught up with us in the rural retreat of Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire, whence we had gone for a small and uninteresting case and had – unluckily as it turned out – stayed on for a few days. Unfortunately the telegram asking for our help came from the same religious order who had taught Sherlock in London so he felt obliged to go, though I insisted on our not starting out until the following day especially as the summons had reached us after eight in the evening. Though there may have been a train across the border, justice could wait for twelve more hours. Sherlock needed his sleep.

We had dined at the house of an acquaintance that evening, from which we had just returned although 'dined' was perhaps an exaggeration. The current vogue for infinitesimally tiny portions seemed a cheap excuse for not providing enough food as far as I was concerned. My stomach voiced its agreement as we re-entered our hotel room, much to Sherlock's amusement.

“I had a feeling that you might not be too impressed with tonight's menu”, he said, “so I ordered some food in from the hotel restaurant. It should be heated up and here in a few minutes.”

“Good!” I said fervently. “I need it after that!”

We both undressed and soon there was a knock at the door. Sherlock donned his dressing-gown – he had absent-mindedly opened the door stark naked to one of the maids the previous morning and the girl had run screaming down the corridor, lucky thing! – and went to get the food. I perked up at once at the familiar smell.

“There is chocolate trifle!” I beamed, not bouncing across the room like an over-eager puppy. He chuckled at me.

“I thought that you would approve of my choice”, he said with a smile. “Tell me John; if it ever came to a choice between chocolate and sex, which one would you choose?”

My face must have resembled a train crash as I stared at him in abject horror. His face fell and he sighed unhappily.

“I see”, he said morosely. “Then I had better leave you two together....mmph!”

I stopped his words by the simple expedient of sealing my lips to his and holding him as close as I could. He tensed briefly before melting into me.

“You can send that back to the kitchens right now”, I said firmly, even though a part of me winced at the idea. “You always come first, Sherlock.”

He smiled and walked across to the bell. For one horrible moment I thought he was going to do just as I had said but then he smiled at me again.

“Just testing”, he said. “I would never deny the man I love the food he loves. Even if that food is a.. _close_ second to me.”

“My Sherlock”, I said walking over and plastering my body all over him. “Share, please?”

He beamed at me. Even better, he let me have nearly all of the trifle!

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Hitherto I had always thought of the English village as something permanent. The cluster of little cottages unaffected even if there was a railway line passing through it, the small quiet churchyard, the tavern, the shops, the families who had lived there for generations, the squire's house...... it seemed as if it had been that way for centuries and always would be. Which may have been even although I knew of the story behind what I was seeing in an abstract sense, actually seeing it with my own eyes still came as a shock.

We had been summoned to the famous Priory School not far from the town of Uppingham in Rutlandshire, an institution which despite its remoteness rivalled places like Eton and Harrow in its fame and accomplishments. Unfortunately it now surpassed those institutions in a rather more unwelcome accomplishment – the sudden and unexplained death of two of its pupils. I did not immediately see the connection between that and a field with strange markings but Brother Lionel, who had come to meet us off the train, explained matters.

“You are probably going to be told about our famous Curse at some time or other”, he said, “so I thought that I would fill you in with some actual facts. This, gentlemen, is all that remains of Martinsthorpe village.”

I remembered that the station we had recently alighted from had been Martinsthorpe Halt for the Priory School, but I had assumed that the village in question was a 'normal' one. Apparently not.

“Sheep?” I asked, earning myself a curious glance from Sherlock. Our host nodded.

“Back in 1533 the then-prior decided that wool was the future and threw all the villagers out of their homes”, he explained. “The village was razed to the ground and replaced with a single sheep-farm; you can see the modern farm buildings in the distance as like many places the small farm was later merged with others into a larger one. Legend has it that the evicted villagers cursed the prior and said that he would go to the devil, but he just laughed at them. Yet just six years later Henry the Eighth dissolved the place and gave it to one of his followers. It passed through various owners until our order acquired it as a school twenty years ago; that was the same year the railway opened and we have prospered ever since. Until now.”

I looked out at the marked field and shuddered. Getting on for four centuries since that terrible day yet there were still signs of the lives and loves that had been so brutally interrupted here. What in this world was truly permanent?

“What happened to the prior?” I asked.

“Retired on a fat pension from the king!” Brother Lionel laughed. “You see why I am a bit chary about that part of the Curse. But with the deaths of young Smith and Warwick, well, people are talking. Father Adam and I thought that you should be prepared.”

“All facts have the potential to be important”, Sherlock said, rather sententiously I thought. 

Our host nodded and we got back into our carriage, leaving the abandoned village behind us. I was not sorry to see the back of it.

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The head of the school was indeed Father Adam, a balding monastic in his late fifties. He greeted us warmly.

“It was fortunate that your telegram caught us in the area”, Sherlock said. “Brother Lionel explained what has happened but I would like to run through things with your good self to make sure that I have all the facts.”

“Of course”, our host said. He sat back and folded his arms over his ample figure (I tried not to think 'Friar Tuck' but failed dismally and of course earned myself a warning look from the resident mind-reader). “Most of the boys returned to their families for the Christmas break but by last week they were all back with us. At the end of our last school year the Governors who run the school had decided that we should take on three lay teachers for the expansion. The Order operates the school but half of the Governors are lay people and we felt obliged to respect their wishes, especially as some of them have very wisely placed their sons here. Also we had just had to fight off a frankly bizarre suggestion from one of them that we should actually start having _girls_ here!”

He made it sound like they had managed to avoid a fate worse than death. I suppressed a smile.

“The three new teachers were Mr. Ludwig for German, Mr. Harrow for art and Mr. Barnstone for Divinity and Scripture”, he went on. “With the first two I was quite satisfied, more than in Mr. Ludwig's case, but Mr. Barnstone seems far too relaxed for our institution. He even insists on the boys addressing him by his first name of Edward!”

 _Presumably he drowns a few puppies in his spare time_ , I thought dryly. That got me another sharp look.

“I suppose that every teacher has their own approach”, Sherlock said mildly. “I take it that there were no complaints from the boys?”

“There were not”, our host admitted, sounding almost reluctant to admit that. “I sampled some of his work throughout last term as a matter of course, and it seemed fairly satisfactory.”

“Only fairly satisfactory?” Sherlock asked quirking an eyebrow. I too was surprised and wondered if the headmaster had in fact been disappointed that an approach he clearly disapproved of had not yielded poorer results. 

“One cannot make judgements based on a few months”, Father Adam said loftily. “With what has happened since I feel that I was quite right to be concerned. Two of his boys were found dead yesterday morning. I of course called the police but I dispatched a telegram to your Baker Street home at once.”

There were times when I silently cursed the modern world and the almost instant messaging available to people nowadays. This was definitely one of them.

“Please tell us exactly what happened”, Sherlock said.

“I should explain that we are not strictly speaking a conventional school”, our host said. “It is our practice that while the boys spend about two-thirds of their time in the classroom as one might expect, they are also set a large number of assignments which they are expected to finish – or not as the case may be – in their own time. These all count towards their final mark and are aimed at encouraging a degree of self-motivation.”

“It all sounds quite sensible”, Sherlock agreed.

“For Divinity & Scripture the boys have a choice once they reach fourteen”, our host explained. “They all have to take the basic course – we are a Christian country, after all – but they may also take an advanced course as one of their four optional subjects. This is why Mr. Barnstone only had four students in his class on the day before the deaths, all sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds. James Smith, Cenred Langar, Paul Warwick and Mark Barrington-Brooks. The subject under discussion was the power of superstition and one of the boys – no-one is quite sure who it was – suggested that they try summoning a demon. Quite stupid and Mr. Barnstone was extremely foolish to go along with it, but he said that he had a book on the subject so why not? After dark that evening they all went to an area behind the stables and painted some symbols on the ground. Naturally nothing happened – but the following morning both Smith and Warwick were found dead in their beds!”

“And of course someone talked”, Sherlock said. “You immediately called a doctor?” 

Father Adam nodded.

“We have our own man, Doctor Gipping, and the police brought their fellow in from Uppingham”, he said. “Both men were of the opinion that the cause of death for both boys was poisoning.”

“What sort of poison?” I asked.

“That they could not say”, our host said, “although the police doctor suspects cyanide. He cannot be certain until further tests are carried out and he has to send to Leicester for those. But it cannot be anything that the boys ate; their diets are strictly monitored and dinner is served from communal bowls. They cannot have been poisoned yet they apparently were.”

“Teenage boys will often find ways to eat things that adults around them know not”, Sherlock said sagely. “I would like to interview the two boys and Mr. Barnstone, if that is acceptable.”

“Of course”, Father Adam said. “I have already ordered a room to be set aside for you. I will take you there.”

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Our first interviewee was Master Cenred Langar. He was tall for his age but gangly in the way that teenage boys often are, yet to fully grow into his limbs. His blond hair looked in urgent need of a trim reminding me of Stevie's son Henry, who had inherited his father's flowing locks. My brother called it 'leonine' but to me it looked just plain untidy. Sherlock's unruly mess of a thatch (especially if I was a contributor to that mess) was infinitely better.

 _”You_ are Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” the boy said disbelievingly.

I scowled on my friend's behalf but I could see his point. Sherlock was definitely a lot better than when we had first met and more than once I had had to explain to overzealous railway officials why I was apparently taking an indigent with me into first-class, but although his clothing and presentation had improved since my return from Egypt all those years ago, his hair remained both long and unruly, and his manic mannerisms when he was on someone's track at times made some people look at him in alarm. It had also, I suspected, been one of the factors that at one time had encouraged those horrible rumours that he took drugs before his fearsome mother had found the journalists responsible, and said journalists had found that some ladies were best not crossed unless one actually _liked_ hospital food!

“I am”, Sherlock said, nodding slightly at me in that annoying way of his. “I am here to investigate the deaths of your two young friends.”

“Paul was my friend”, the boy corrected stiffly. “Jamie was just a bully, always thinking that he was better than everyone else.”

 _So much for not speaking ill of the dead_ , I thought wryly. _Welcome to the twentieth century!_

“The doctors think that both boys were poisoned”, Sherlock said carefully. “That would obviously indicate that they ate something during the day which you did not. Have you any idea what that might have been?”

There was a short but definite pause before the boy shook his head.

“Master Langar”, Sherlock said warningly, “I would remind you that the wilful withholding of information pertinent to any crime is itself an offence, indeed a _most_ serious one. This may well be murder, so the police will not look kindly upon you if you 'happen to remember' something later on in the investigation. What do you know?”

The boy reddened and gulped.

“Barrington-Brooks came up to us before Barney – Mr. Barnstone – arrived, and showed us a stash of chocolate he _claimed_ to have found”, he said, his voice openly dubious. “I asked him why he hadn't eaten any but he said he was allergic or some such rot. It was plain, so I thought maybe he just didn't like it.”

_(In the manufacturing process of early bars of chocolate, it was indeed the case that plain chocolate bars could cause an allergy in a few cases, and this continued until the chemical causing it was isolated and removed. Oddly enough given later concerns about how unhealthy confectionery in general was, it only much later emerged that modern plain chocolate contains a chemical which, in very small amounts, is beneficial to the body as it helps to regulate a man's heartbeat)._

“You think that he was lying?” Sherlock asked.

“He's one of those who will do anything to fit in”, the boy said scornfully. “He gave us two each but Barney was just coming out so we hid them. I suppose they ate theirs later.”

“You did not?” I asked. The boy shook his head.

“I find plain chocolate too bitter”, he said, “so I thought I might trade it to some of the other boys later.”

“What did you do with your bars?” Sherlock asked. 

“Hid them in a drawer in my room”, the boy said. Then he went pale. “Oh. You think.... _they_ had poison in them?”

“I think that we will accompany you to your room now and forward them to the police for analysis”, Sherlock said, rising to his feet. “We shall go there now.”

He opened the door and the boy led us through a maze of corridors before finally stopping at a thick wooden door. He opened it and entered a large dormitory room with two study desks at each end and four beds in between, two on each side. A shorter brown-haired young boy was reading at one of them but Master Langar ignored him and went over to open the small cupboard by his bed. He searched around in it then looked helplessly at us before looking in the other draws.”

“Gone?” Sherlock said.

“Gone!” the boy said flatly. “But at least I saved you some time. This is Barrington-Brooks.”

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The brown-haired boy accompanied us back to the interview room, looking decidedly nervous. Whereas our first boy had been tall and gangly this one was short and compact, constantly pushing his glasses back up his nose. His clothes were much more ill-fitting that his predecessor and I guessed that his family were not so well off. Sherlock seated him opposite us both and himself sat down.

“You are aware that we are investigating the deaths of two of your fellow pupils”, he said gently.

The boy nodded, looking as if one sharp word would cause him to bolt.

“It is important that we know as much as possible about the victims”, Sherlock said. “I would value _your_ opinions, Master Barrington-Brooks. Be assured that we shall treat them with absolute confidence.”

“James had a name for being a bully”, the boy said quietly, “but in a way he had to be. He's got two younger brothers in the school; John who's thirteen and Joe who's nine. They both got picked on when they all started here and he came down hard on the people doing it. I think the masters thought about punishing him for it but nothing actually happened which was good. Paul was a bit of a joker but no harm in him; I thought he was the one behind the chocolate but he denied it.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked. 

“I found six bars of chocolate in my clothes drawers when I went to get my kit for cross-country”, he said. “Paul was one of the few who knew that I was allergic to just the plain – we both come from Coventry – so I just thought maybe it was his way of teasing me. I love the milk sort so seeing all that chocolate was just frustrating.”

“So you handed it to your fellow Divinity & Scripture students”, Sherlock said.

The boy nodded, then his eyes widened as he got it.

“No!” he yelped.

“As you have correctly surmised, there is every likelihood that that chocolate was the medium of poison”, Sherlock said gently. “The bitter taste of the plain version as opposed to the blander milk variety would certainly have helped hide the poison. Tell me, apart from Master Langar were either of the other boys in your dormitory?”

The boy shook his head. 

“No, I only shared with one other boy – Wilson – before Red arrived. Wilson had to go home at the end of last week for some family thing or other; he was very grumpy about it because his mother wanted him to transfer to a place closer to his home in Grantham but his father didn't. She got her way, worse luck; he was a good fellow. Red started this term, transferred from a school in Nottinghamshire that closed. He did well to get in.”

“Is your room locked when no-one is there?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head slightly for some reason.

The boy shook his head. My friend sat back and put his hands behind his head surveying him curiously.

“It is not just the chocolate, is it?” Sherlock said eventually. “There is something else in this case that you have not yet told us.”

The boy blushed.

“I can't say”, he muttered.

“You can”, Sherlock said. “Indeed, for your own sake you had better. Two of the four boys at that ritual have died. We would not want _you_ to be the third.”

The boy looked up fearfully.

“You,,,, you think _I'm_ in danger?” he asked, clearly aghast.

“If the killer knows or even thinks that you know something, then they will surely strike again”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sure that you have studied Shakespeare's brilliant if questionably accurate play 'Macbeth'. You will know that once someone has killed one time, it becomes ever easier to 'remove' people who look as if they might be 'in the way'.”

The boy gulped.

“I wasn't supposed to be there”, he said, wide-eyed with fear. “I... I decided to go to Father Adam about the chocolate this morning, thinking it might be important – the secretary was gossiping that poison was involved – but he wasn't in his office. On my way back I heard someone talking in one of the teachers' rooms. I shouldn't have listened but I recognized the voice.”

“Who was it?” Sherlock asked.

“Red”, the boy said. “And he can only have been talking to one person. I heard one sentence before I ran but he definitely said, 'Father, I know what you did'!”

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I do not believe it!” I said stoutly. “Father Adam, in his own school? If anyone has a motive _not_ to have two murders here, it is him!”

Sherlock was saved from a reply by the arrival of Mr. Edward Barnstone. The Divinity & Scripture professor sat opposite us looking very nervous. He was a wispy blond fellow of around forty years of age and looked totally bemused at the demise of his pupils.

“First”, Sherlock said, “I would like your opinion of the characters of the four boys at the ritual. Please be frank; nothing you say will be repeated outside of this room..”

“Smith was all right; a lot of swagger to him but no real harm”, the man said. “Langar was the one who brought up the idea of the summoning which is typical of the lad; he always has been a troublemaker. Warwick was a joker but he would get down to work when pushed. As for Barrington-Brooks, he should not be left in charge of anything more complex than a pencil-sharpener!”

Sherlock looked at him curiously for a while. I wondered what he had spotted in that seemingly innocuous set of descriptions.

“I see”, he said slowly. “I understand that you moved here at the start of the term, sir. From where may I ask?”

“Harby, over the border in Leicestershire”, the teacher said. 

“That is in the Vale of Belvoir, is it not?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes”, the man said clearly wondering where Sherlock was going with this line of questioning. As was I for that matter.

“I am going to ask a question which you may find impertinent”, Sherlock said, “but it is highly relevant to my investigation. You are related to the Dukes of Rutland, are you not?”

The man's mouth promptly fell open. I could empathize; I knew that feeling.

“How did you know?” he muttered. 

“What is your real name?” Sherlock countered. The man sighed. 

“Edward Manners”, he admitted. “I am a distant cousin to the current duke although from an illegitimate line, and with the death of my father last year I became independently wealthy. Duke John is godfather to my daughter Elizabeth and I visit him at the castle from time to time.”

“Then why teach?” I asked in bewilderment. If I had come into money, I would have fled this profession and have never looked back!

“It was all that I ever wanted to do”, he smiled. “My father hated it and did everything he could short of disinheritance to stop me, but I persisted. I worked at a local school until last year and I was certain that he used his influence to force it to close down. I managed to get a year at Stowe to cover a teacher who went to the United States, and when he came back I applied here.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I have one more question”, he said. “Do any of the boys visit you in your private rooms?”

“No, sir!” he said, looking shocked. “That would be _highly_ improper. Tutoring sessions take place only in designated rooms.”

Sherlock leaned forward. 

“I have an idea about how we might solve this case”, he said. “But I am going to need some help....”

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“Is this really necessary?” Father Adam asked looking vexed. “I have already had to talk three fathers out of withdrawing their sons from the school.”

“I would not ask unless it was”, Sherlock said firmly. “I only need to borrow Mr. Barnstone for a few days, a week at most.”

“What if the killer strikes while you are gone?” the headmaster fretted.

“It is my belief that they will not”, Sherlock said. “However as there are no more services from the halt and I do not wish to endure a night-time journey to Oakham, we will depart first thing tomorrow morning.” 

He turned to the school secretary, a grizzled elderly lady by the name of Miss Floriston.

“I would like copies of the files you have on all four boys, please”, he said. “Not now but for when we return. Will that be possible?”

I did not believe it. Sixty if she was a day and with iron-grey hair, yet she was simpering at him! Harrumph!

 _“Of course_ , Mr. Holmes”, she said sweetly. “I will set to work _right away.”_

I coughed pointedly and the bastard looked at me, clearly unabashed. Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

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Sherlock and I had been placed in one of the dormitories, the boys there having moved into the sanatorium for the night. I was hoping for at least some sleep but just as I was about to suggest that we turn in there came a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Sherlock called.

To my surprise Master Barrington-Brooks came into the room, looking decidedly nervous. 

“He took them”, he said. 

“Thank you”, Sherlock said standing up. “The doctor and I are going out. Lock the door behind us and do not allow _anyone_ in but us. We will knock twice, pause, then twice again when we return, like the B-B in your name. Do you understand?”

The boy swallowed.

“Yes sir”, he said in a small voice.

“Chin up!” Sherlock said. “You are helping us to catch a murderer!”

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I hurried after him but Sherlock was apparently too busy to answer my obvious questions. Somehow he navigated the labyrinth of corridors easily, though I had no clue as to where we were heading. Eventually he stopped outside a small door and entered what appeared to be an unused bedroom.

“Where are we?” I whispered. 

“The teachers' quarters”, he whispered back. He gestured to a door in the side-wall. “Through there is Mr. Barnstone's room.”

“Then we must be quiet”, I said, “or he will hear us.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“He may normally”, he said. “Tonight someone has drugged his evening milk and is expecting him to be asleep, but he is feigning as advised.”

“Why?” I asked.

“We shall see when he receives the visitor that I am expecting”, Sherlock said. “Probably not for a few hours yet, though. We had best make ourselves comfortable.”

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He was proven right. It was a little after two o' clock in the morning before I heard the sound of quiet footsteps in the corridor outside. I took out my notebook.

'What are we going to do?' I wrote and showed it to him.

He took it and wrote a single word, 'wait'. 

Nothing happened for what seemed like an age until I saw the handle of the connecting side-door slowly turning. The door opened silently – too silently; someone must have surely greased the hinges – and a figure stepped into our room, smiling broadly. Then he saw Sherlock and I both standing there, and the smile vanished as if it never had been. 

It was Master Cenred Langar.

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Sherlock moved swiftly and the boy was handcuffed before he could even start to resist, although he seemed too stunned at being caught. 

“Stay with him”, Sherlock said in his normal voice before hurrying through the still open door. I could now smell what was indisputably smoke coming through and I feared momentarily for my friend before I heard the sound of windows and doors being opened, followed quickly by Sherlock helping a yawning Mr. Barnstone through the door. 

“John”, he said, “I need you to go and fetch Father Adam and inform him of what has happened here.”

“What has happened?” I asked still confused. Sherlock gestured to the stunned Master Langar.

“This boy just tried to commit patricide!”

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“How did you know?” Father Adam demanded. 

It was the following day. Fortunately the murderous schoolboy had relied on smoke rather than fire to dispose of the father whose drink he had drugged so the damage to the room was minimal. The mental damage to a man whose son had killed twice and then attempted patricide was another matter entirely.

“It struck me on hearing of this crime that there was, fittingly, a certain schoolboy element about it”, Sherlock said. “Curses are all very well but local constabularies and consulting detectives prefer _facts_. Thus I was looking for someone with possibly an immature outlook on life, although it has to be said that could include many adults!”

I smiled at that.

“I was also fortunate in that I had a small matter for the Duke of Rutland some years back”, Sherlock said, “and had a chance to see the fine portraits in his London home. The moment that I saw Mr. Barnstone I suspected a link, and of course that led me to the idea that Master Langar might be his son.”

“Of course!” I said. “Master Barrington-Brooks overheard Master Langar calling someone 'Father'. He was not speaking to Father Adam at all!”

Sherlock nodded.

“Had he been addressing Father Adam here he would have more likely said 'Father Adam' than just 'Father'”, he said. “That plus the fact that the villages of Langar and Barnstone are both close to Belvoir Castle. As also is Harby, where Mr. Barnstone hails from; I expect the school that he taught at was also attended by his son as the Leicestershire border is barely a mile from there. And Mr. Barnstone told us that the boy 'always had been a troublemaker' yet apparently he had known him for only a short time here.”

“The chocolate bars?” Father Adam asked.

“Master Langar knew that they would dispose of two of the boys at the ritual”, Sherlock said. “He had learned from Master Warwick that Barrington-Brooks was allergic to plain chocolate so he knew that he would not eat any, and since they shared a room it was easy to infer that his room-mate had stolen the uneaten chocolate bars to hide the evidence. It is I am afraid the old trick of hiding a leaf in a forest, or in this case a murder in a set of murders.”

“But how did you know that he would try to kill his father tonight?” Father Adam asked.

“Remember that I told your secretary about my plans to take Mr. Barnstone to London the next day”, Sherlock smiled. “Contrary to the original meaning of their name, secretaries are often terrible at keeping secrets. I also had Master Barrington-Brooks standing by as a back-up; he was going to mention it if the news had not reached its target by nightfall, but fortunately it had. I do hope that the boy will receive a commendation for his role in all this as it has doubtless taxed him considerably.”

“Killing his own father”, Father Adam shuddered. “Why?”

“Money”, Sherlock said flatly. “A great deal of it. Mr. Barnstone – or Mr. Manners as I should call him – is very wealthy and Master Cenred is his first-born son. The boy decided that he was not prepared to wait for his father to die but wanted that money _now._ As I had expected I found an alleged suicide note supposedly signed by Mr. Barnstone confessing to the murder of the two boys 'because the devil made him do it'. As the Bible says, the love of money is the root of all evil. Which brings me to my fee.”

“Oh”, Father Adam said, reddening somewhat. “Yes. Indeed. We are not....”

“My fee”, Sherlock said, “is that as well as suitably rewarding the brave Master Barrington-Brooks, you allow Mr. Barnstone to continue here if he so wishes. He may not after the ordeal that the poor fellow has been through, but no man should be subjected to both that and losing his job for a relatively small untruth. I am convinced that he could not have known of the horror he was unleashing here.”

“Of course”, Father Adam smiled. “We would be glad to keep him on.”

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Postscriptum: Mr. Barnstone/Mr. Manners did stay on at the school and eventually rose to become deputy headmaster before moving to become headmaster of a school in Nottingham. His son, being too young to face the death penalty, spent the rest of his wretched life behind bars which for the wilful murder of two young boys and attempted patricide was the very least that he deserved. And to the surprise of just about everyone Master Mark Barrington-Brooks not only grew up to become a brilliant scientist whose discoveries saved the lives of thousands, but married a rich and beautiful society lady and had some eleven children. You just never knew!

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	9. Case 307: The Adventure Of The Whistle-blower ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. Mr. Crowley's good friend the Reverend Asa Rival comes to 221B with an unusual problem, one with a medieval bent – someone is claiming the right of sanctuary in his church! Even more strangely, it is a fellow vicar!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic mention of child abuse.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of the things that made me roll my eyes when people went on about it was the much-vaunted female intuition. As I have said before, in far too many cases it was merely a cover for some desperate housewife to get my Sherlock 'intu' her bed, and the fact that the bastard always smirked at my ever so slight annoyance when this was tried.... harrumph!

_(Talking of which, 'Desperate Housewives' was a 'work' written by Sherlock's fearsome mother and much known in the molly-houses of our friend Mr. Godfreyson's molly-houses, as it portrayed his industry in..... let us say full and excruciating detail. The last time that one of the 'boys' had committed a minor indiscretion his punishment had been to read the whole thing and then be compelled to write a letter to Lady Holmes saying how much he had enjoyed it. Poor Shillelagh Seamus still shuddered whenever he met either me or Sherlock, especially when I treated him as he seemed to fear I might for some strange reason have a copy of this literary crime waiting to spring on him!)_

On the second day of the second month we were reading quietly in our rooms when a card was sent up. Sherlock read it and raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Crowley's friend, the Reverend Rival”, he said. “I wonder what brings him to our door.”

“We had better have him up and find out”, I said.

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Mr. Marcus Crowley was, as my esteemed readers will know, one of the foremost criminals in London Town with whom we had had several dealings. That his special friend was a man of the cloth was.... surprising, but then Mr. Godfreyson's molly-houses had two Church of England vicars and several lesser officials on its rolls, as well as a Catholic priest and a Nonconformist preacher. London truly was a cosmopolitan city!

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, gentleman”, the vicar smiled. He still had that strange habit of dressing in as much white as he could and the effect was almost dazzling, even in the grey winter light. “I have a rather unusual matter to hand which I hope that you can help me with.”

“We will do our best”, Sherlock said. “What is it?”

“As you may have read”, our visitor said, frowning, “there was a most horrible scandal in the 'Times' last week concerning the misappropriation of Church funds from a foreign aid committee. Or theft, if we are being brutally honest. Moneys that had been destined for the poor in Africa had been redirected to the pockets of the gentlemen in charge of it.”

I sighed. Long experience just told me what was coming next. The vicar nodded.

“The police investigation is ongoing”, he said, “and naturally the Church is doing what any large organization would do in the circumstances – looking for the person who blew the whistle on their misdeeds. Yesterday one of the gentlemen on that committee, a Mr. Giles Fresh, came into my church in a complete panic. He said that several of his fellow committee members had 'fingered' him and wanted him dead for telling on them. He is still there, hiding.”

Sherlock paused for some reason. I wondered why.

“There is something in his story that strikes you as irregular in some way”, he said. “What is it?”

“Not that he would come to my church”, Mr. Rival said. “Everyone knows that Marco gets very cross if I am even remotely inconvenienced, and when Marco gets very cross someone usually ends up pinned to a nearby river-bed in concrete shoes. No, I have a sense for when someone is not being totally straight with me – being with Marco lets me practice that rather a lot, as you can imagine – and I do not think that Mr. Fresh told me everything. Although I have noted that there are now four gentleman taking point at each of the two exits to my church, so clearly he has reason to fear something.”

Sherlock looked at him curiously.

“Why did you not go straight to Miss St. Leger?” he asked. “Her offices are on the way between your house and here.”

The vicar blushed fiercely. 

“Marco asked me to come and ask you to approach her”, he said. “Last time we went and asked her for information, he made a rather rude comment about her fondness for jam cream fingers and she..... she made a pointed remark about cowboys.”

His blush intensified and I only narrowly managed not to chuckle. A man of the cloth, a criminal and two cowboy hats. What Sherlock's fearsome mother would make of that was beyond imagination! Come to that Sherlock still had that Stetson that Mr. Lannister had given him that time in Scotland plus the chaps that he had also bought and.... and why was he looking at me like that?

“We shall approach Miss St. Leger for you, Reverend”, Sherlock said, giving me a look that suddenly made the room feel at least ten degrees colder. “We shall send to you when we have something.”

“Thank you”, our guest smiled. “Good hunting!”

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This was just not fair! I had not laughed at the thought of two of our friends and a Western setting, but once the vicar had gone Sherlock had slid the red card across the door, fetched the Stetson and chaps, and.... I had almost sprained an ankle in my eagerness to get started. And when had he found the time to purchase all that rope that had me trussed up tighter than a Christmas goose?

I felt him teasing my entrance with his cock-head and groaned.

“Clay taught me some new tricks”, he grinned as he worked my nipples, making my exhausted cock twitch in a futile attempt to come yet again. “We do have some interesting friends, do we not?”

I moaned at the mention of Mr. Clayton York, a rich and handsome American gentlemen from the Western states who was a recent addition to our friend Mr. Godfreyson's molly-houses having decided to visit the Old Country for a year. Very much the atypical cowboy, the young fellow had been brought round by the insufferable Mr. Laurence Trevelyan for a sprained wrist, something that they really should have been treating themselves rather than coming round here and leering at _my_ Sherlock.

 _My_ Sherlock pushed slowly in, and somehow managed to loosen all the knots that were keeping me trussed up. I collapsed into an untidy heap, and that pushed him up against my prostate making me come violently. I screamed my release and sank back onto the bed, a broken but ecstatically happy man. 

Which was good, because our current case was about to take a singularly disgusting turn which would render neither of us in the mood for this any time soon.

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I knew that Miss St. Leger was efficient, but even I was surprised when we arrived at her offices to find that she was already looking into the matter of Mr. Fresh.

“I heard that he had gone to your Mr. Rival's church”, she said, “and I wondered why. I suppose there was the obvious protection – no-one is going to cross his thresh-hold without a death-wish – but I was still suspicious. So despite certain criminals who might know when to keep their mouths shut, I made some inquiries.”

“Why were you suspicious?” I asked. “If I was looking for a safe place, that would have been exactly where I would have gone.”

“I suppose that sometimes one has to 'saddle up' and 'ride off into the sunset'”, she smiled, making us both blush (seriously, nothing was sacred in London!). “But I have never liked the Reverend Fresh and I definitely did not see him as the sort to have done the honourable thing by tattling on his fellow criminals. Sure enough he did not.”

Her face had gone grave. I began to have a bad feeling.

“What did he do?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“It is disgusting!” she said. “He.... I do not even want to say it, but he consorted with two of the boys in his choir. One aged eleven and one twelve.”

Sherlock's face darkened.

“I would never normally ask this of you, madam”, he said grimly, “but are you sure?”

She sighed unhappily.

“Normally I would have sent round to the Reverend Rival immediately”, she said, “but given the gravity of the matter I felt that I had better institute a second check. That came back just before you got here. It is confirmed.”

Sherlock nodded.

“We shall convey your information to the Reverend for you”, he said.

“Thank you.”

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The Reverend Rival stared at us incredulously. 

“It is Miss St. Leger, so of course she is sure”, he said grimly. “Gentlemen, would you do something for me?”

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “What?”

“Lurking by each of the front and back gates you will find the two men keeping watch on this place”, he said. “Tell them that the Church has withdrawn its protection of Mr. Fresh. They may collect him now.”

We did. And they did.

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Mr. Giles Fresh was handed over to the local police-station about an hour later, rather the worse for wear as he had 'fallen' several times on the way. He was duly sentenced to a long time in gaol for his heinous crimes, but I was not surprised that he did not serve it. Despite the famous saying there is little honour among thieves but in gaols there is an iron-clad hatred against men who abuse children, and 'somehow' the prison officers on the spot did not quite reach the former vicar in time to save him when his cell door was left open and six other prisoners somehow managed to get inside. 

Sometimes karma gets it very right.

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	10. Case 308: The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. The swift return of Miss Clementine St. Leger heralds a case when Sherlock is called upon to find a woman who has been kidnapped. Or has she?

_{Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Ever since their disagreement over my relationship with Sherlock, he and his brother Randall had seen very little of each other, remaining in contact for professional reasons but nothing more. I have to say that this did not greatly upset me and any celebrations that I may or may not have had as a result were purely coincidental. 

_How the blazes can I hear someone shaking their head from the next room?_

I had not expected much from Sherlock's family as our relationship became clear to them, and I had been grateful for the understanding shown by Sir Edward Holmes although I heard from his daughter Mrs. Thompson that Lady Holmes had been a driving force behind that, going so far as to clout any son who openly opposed our relationship. Mycroft's hostility along with Guilford's studied indifference I could ignore, but bearing in mind everything that Sherlock had done for Randall I felt entitled to have expected better from the lounge-lizard. His recent absence was more than a good thing in my opinion.

Possibly the only downside to having less of the oleaginous layabout in our lives was that it also meant we had fewer dealings with Miss St. Leger, who was now supplying the government with a steady flow of information (and, unbeknown to them, monitoring them to make sure that they did not abuse it). She had assisted us in the rather sordid Fresh Affair recently and when she appeared at Baker Street so soon after I hoped that it would be for something less unpleasant. I would have thought that a fairly safe bet, but I knew better.

It was the middle of February and the depressing weather was matched by the streets, still bedecked for the recent funeral of Her Majesty. Like many Britons I privately dreaded the prospect of Edward the Seventh (he had never liked his Christian name of Albert although in a rare display of tact he claimed that he wanted his late father alone to be honoured for it). Still, after the great Victoria we found ourselves with a libertine on the Imperial throne at a time of increasing dangers across Europe. It did not bode well.

I had just been reading the maiden Commons speech by a new Liberal member of parliament called Mr. Winston Churchill, for whom the 'Times' writers predicted great things. I doubted that very much; his father Lord Randolph Churchill had briefly been Chancellor of the Exchequer and in his short yet inglorious political career had managed only one achievement, namely upsetting just about everyone that there was to upset. I was sure that we would never hear of his son again and was saying as much to my friend when Miss St. Leger was announced. She had timed her advent well; Sherlock was just finishing his third cup of coffee and was now fairly coherent.

_(Yes, it was late for his third cup but I had been slow in bringing him his second that morning and he had taken quite some time to make his annoyance clear. Hence my two cushions and happy smile)._

“I know that I am not usually the person to call you in on things like this”, our guest began, giving me a far too knowing a look for a lady of her class, “but I have run up against something rather odd and I would be grateful if you could focus those investigative powers of yours onto it.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, yawning. He had been suffering from a mild flu for much of the last week and neither of us had slept much as a result. I yawned in sympathy and Miss St. Leger looked knowingly at me again. I shifted on my perch and blushed. Manfully of course.

“Have you read anything in the papers about the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax?” our guest asked.

“The name sounds familiar”, I said, thinking hard and being very careful not to move at all. “Yes, I remember now. Her brother Ferdinando was in the newspapers last year. He was expelled from the Carbonara Club for hitting a servant who, he claimed, had not bowed low enough to him.”

“It is a good thing that someone hardly ever reads the social pages, is it not?” said someone who did not want extra bacon any time soon and could stop with the head-shaking _right now!_

“There are as I am sure the good doctor knows three Carfaxes”, Miss St. Leger said. “Ferdinando and his sister Felicia, both single thankfully for Mankind. And their sister Lady Frances, who married one Mr. Christophorius Peartree but insisted that she keep her own name. Typical of the woman, I must say.”

“And now she has disappeared?” I asked. “Are you sure that we _want_ to find her?”

Sherlock shot another look at me. I shrugged and Miss St. Leger grinned.

“I have an inkling as to what may have happened”, she admitted, “but in my line of business I cannot risk making accusations, especially against such temperamental folks. The Carfaxes may be an unpleasant bunch of slime-balls but they are also an _influential,_ unpleasant bunch of slime-balls!”

“Mr. Peartree”, I said thoughtfully. “Is he related to Lord Peartree, the minister at the War Office?”

“That is his brother, Chrysippus”, Miss St. Leger said. “The sad thing is that those two got off lightly compared to the rest of their siblings; their mother virtually guaranteed that they would be tortured at school when she named them!”

_(I made a note to check up on the rest of the Peartree family names. Sure enough there were four more brothers – Caeculus, Cephaelion, Corinthus and Creon, and two sisters, Chloris and Callisto. What with that and our friend Wilson's family – his wife was expecting again so Lord alone knew what the poor mite would end up being called† – maybe the French had a point when it came to not allowing certain naming choices!)._

“Where do Mr. Peartree and Lady Carfax reside?” Sherlock asked.

“Where else?” she said wryly. “'Carfax Mansion'; it is in Aboukir Square in Paddington and I am only surprised that she has not set about having the square if not the whole area named after her as well. She left there on Friday afternoon and has not been seen since. There is one other thing that you should know. When Mr. Peartree agreed to the name thing he managed to secure something in return. If the marriage ends any way _other_ than his wife leaving him then he gets half of her estate. If she were to be deemed by the courts to have disappeared, then that would count.”

“So he does have a motive then”, Sherlock said. “As well as means and opportunity. Have the police interviewed him yet?”

She pulled a face.

“That is another reason for my interest”, she said. “That rat Whitefeather is on the case. In fact it was he who got me involved.”

“How so?” I asked surprised.

“I was seeing a client in the square and he tried to question me”, she said, looking decidedly cross. “I really thought that he would have gotten the message last time but apparently he _is_ as dumb as he looks. I applied my knee to a certain part of his anatomy when he got too close for comfort, and that put an end to that! Mr. Peartree works as a jeweller in the Marylebone High Road, not too far from here. The shop is called simply 'C. Peartree's'.”

“Do _you_ believe that Lady Frances has been kidnapped?” Sherlock asked.

“I do not”, she said. “Although I have nothing but gut instinct telling me that.”

“For you madam, that is more than enough”, Sherlock said with a smile. “We will investigate this case for you.”

She smiled.

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We had hoped to catch Inspector Baldur at his station but the sergeant there told us that he was off for a week, as his wife had just had their eighth child. We therefore adjourned to his house in Canonbury where the frazzled policeman looked glad for the interruption. After we had seen and praised baby Frigga, the newest addition to our friend's growing family, we adjourned to the garden.

“The Lady Frances disappearance”, the inspector said peering over the top of his newly-acquired gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes red with lack of sleep. “Yes, Whitefeather has it. He is sure that the husband had done away with her. Only the queen's funeral and our new king have kept it off the front pages thus far, and that will not last. I wish you joy of it.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked. He chuckled.

“Lady Frances's brother and sister were at the station on my last day, thinking that we were the investigating officers”, he said. “Aboukir Square is right on the border between our patch and Paddington's you see. And _talk!_ They would not shut up! It took ten minutes just to get it across to them that they were in the wrong place and then they just stormed out. No apology or anything. No manners, some people.”

He gazed fondly at his wife who was being helped by their eldest boy Odin, now nearly eleven and the image of his father, to care for Frigga.

“Mr. Peartree's shop is 'on your patch' though”, Sherlock observed. “Do you know him at all?”

“Yes, I do”, the sergeant said with a smile. “There was an attempted break-in last year and his business partner, Mr. Xerxes Delamore, was in the store and managed to catch one of the thieves. He is tall, dark and, I have to say, pretty unfriendly, or at least withdrawn. Mr. Peartree did the paperwork of the case for us and came down here to sign it off; he is a much more pleasant fellow. I have no idea as to what terrible thing he did in a previous life to have ended up marrying Lady Frances, but it must have been truly horrendous!”

We both chuckled.

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We went next to the jeweller's shop in Marylebone. A tall dark man in his late twenties was neatly wrapping something up for a customer, presumably as a gift for someone. He handed the finished package over and bowed, and she left the shop smiling. He looked at us curiously.

“Mr. Delamore?” Sherlock asked.

“I am he, sirs”, the fellow said, clearly wary. “Who might you gentlemen be?”

I was sure that Sherlock paused briefly before answering, and that he was looking hard at the fellow for some reason.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson”, my friend said at last. “We are investigating the disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax.”

The shutters promptly slammed down on the man's face.

“I am afraid that I cannot help you”, he said coldly. “Good day, gentlemen.”

“This concerns your.... _partner_ ”, Sherlock said softly, placing his hand on the counter and fingering the two rings on it. 

Mr. Delamore had turned to head out the back of the store but he froze at those words and looked at Sherlock, who slowly nodded. The man seemed to visibly slump.

“Of course!”, he said, sounding almost bitter. _“You_ would know! I cannot catch a break lately!”

“How long?” Sherlock asked.

“We opened five years ago”, he said resignedly. “A tiny place in a backstreet not far from here. Nine months back this place came on the market. It was perfect but we couldn't afford it, so.....”

He sighed heavily.

“So Mr. Peartree married Lady Carfax for the money”, Sherlock finished for him.

“It was understood as a business arrangement on both sides”, the fellow said firmly. “It was like this: she, her brother and sister had all expected to gain access to their funds when Lord Ferdinando reached twenty-five last year. But when he did, it turned out their late father had left an unpleasant little kicker in his will. If none of them were married before Lord Ferdinando's _thirtieth_ birthday then the bulk of the estate would go to charity and they would each be left with a pittance. Lady Frances agreed to marry Chris to 'save the day' for them all', she would put the money in that we needed for the shop then they would get a divorce at the first opportunity. The marriage had to have lasted a year and a day to count, you see, not necessarily to have still been going at the deadline.”

“How long were they married before she disappeared?” Sherlock asked.

“Four months”, Mr. Delamore said. “Nowhere near long enough for her to get her money.”

“If she is still alive”, I put in.

“Chris wouldn't hurt a fly!” the man said scornfully. “That is what is so wrong about all this. _Everyone_ loses by her disappearance. Business is down because the police keep coming here, and Chris's brother Kip was up for a possible promotion but that's impossible with all this hanging over the family. That dratted women's brother and sister were in here the other day – which reminds me, I need to buy a book on setting man-traps!”

“At least you have the money for the shop”, I pointed out. To my surprise he shook his head.

“Lady Frances, typically for her, was paying it off in instalments”, he said. “Twenty per cent down, ten per cent each of the next three quarters and the final fifty per cent at the end. Chris and I will have to close down and move back to Ball Alley; we cannot make the final payment with our cash flow the way it is and the banks would never loan us money with this hanging over us. We might even have to close completely.”

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully.

“I think that I am beginning to see a new angle on this diabolical crime”, he said slowly. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Delamore. It has been a pleasure meeting you, and we shall make sure to inform you of anything that we discover.”

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I waited until we were back in our rooms at Baker Street before asking a question, the answer to which I had a strong idea of.

“Mr. Peartree and Mr. Delamore?” I said.

“I am sure that Mr. Delamore at least is too scrupulous to commit adultery”, Sherlock said pointedly. “It takes two to tango, as they say.”

“How did you know?” I asked.

“His ring”, he said. “It was a stylized St. Christopher for his beloved's name. People who wear those for good fortune in their travels do so as a necklace, not as a ring worn on the wedding-finger. Plus it was not the standard picture of the saint which suggested that it had been hand-crafted, most likely by him. If you remember, he moved to cover it up when he saw me looking at it. Then there was his bitter tone when he spoke of the marriage as a business arrangement.”

“So what next?” I asked. 

“I am going to telegraph Miss St. Leger and ask her to obtain certain information for me that I think may be useful”, he said. “There is no great hurry. Excepting our involvement I do not expect any developments in this case for a day at least.”

Now just what did he mean by _that?_

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Amongst my many failings as a human being was a tendency to worry at any excuse. Of course I said nothing to Sherlock about my concerns, and of course he knew anyway. When he slid into bed beside me that evening he ran a comforting hand around my jaw. I leaned into the embrace willingly.

“What is it?” he asked gently. I blushed.

“Just.... seeing Mr. Delamore today”, I said. “It is so unfair that people like him and like us have to hide what we are. Society should be more accepting, and....”

I stopped, realizing where his hand was headed.

“You cannot always distract me with sex”, I said.

“Can I not?” he asked blithely. “We shall have to test that most interesting hypothesis!”

Using that incredible flexibility of his he squatted over me, then took my cock in his hand and began to guide me inside him. He must have prepared himself for this because I went in easily, sliding home as if I belonged there. Which I did.

“Come on, old man!” he teased. “Only than a year until you are the big five-zero!”

I glared at him and thrust violently upwards. He growled in approval and countered with a thrust against me that nearly had me coming there and then. I managed to hold back and we continued, warring as to who could make the other come first. For once it was a battle that I won (or that he let me win), his walls suddenly clamping me tight as he came with a guttural snarl, although the action drew out my own orgasm and I followed him to heaven just seconds later. He leaned forward and ground his chest into mine, smearing his come between us.

“Round Two later”, he said happily, gently wiping us both down. I smiled and waited until he had finished before pulling him down beside me, nuzzling behind him as I subsided into the blissful arms of Morpheus.

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The following day we went round to Carfax Mansion and sought an interview with Mr. Christophorius Peartree. He was a tall and handsome blond fellow, albeit clearly bowed down by recent developments. I noted the stylized letter 'X' on the ring on his wedding-finger which in his distress he had neglected to cover up.

“May I ask who has employed you to investigate this matter?” he asked.

“You may”, Sherlock said.

There was an awkward silence.

“You may _ask”,_ my friend continued. “But as a private consulting detective I extend that privacy to _all_ my clients. I am sure you understand that I cannot reveal their name. However I will tell you that is in their interests that your wife be found as soon as possible and I fully intend to make sure that that happens.”

“Well then, you may be interested in this”, he said, taking a silver platter with a letter on it and passing it to Sherlock. “The original came this morning, hand-delivered. I informed the police at once of course but I also wrote out a copy. I am afraid that I do not fully trust the sergeant allocated to the case.”

Sherlock read the letter then passed it onto me. It was a hand-written note signed by Lady Carfax, stating that unless a large sum of money was deposited in a bank account within three days, she would be murdered by her captors.

“Was the original in your wife's writing?” Sherlock asked.

“It was”, the man said glumly. “Her scrawl is unmistakeable. But even if I sold my half of the business and cashed in all my investments I will likely not make this sum. I will have to take out a loan.”

“I would advise you not to do that”, Sherlock said. 

The fellow looked shocked.

“Mr. Holmes, there may be no love in our marriage but I would not let my wife die at the hands of the people who hold her!”

“We spoke with Mr. Delamore yesterday”, Sherlock said.

Our host visibly tensed.

“How is Zee... how is he doing?” he asked quietly.

“Business is down, of course”, Sherlock said. “Mr. Peartree, I wish to help you. But I need to ask some of your servants certain questions and I then need you to then be guided by me. If you do I can all but guarantee that your wife will be physically unharmed.”

He smiled wanly.

 _“All but guarantee?”_ he asked.

“It is better that your complete ruination”, Sherlock said. “Tell me; did your wife have a personal maid?”

He laughed hollowly.

“We tried employing one many times but none lasted”, he said. “She could not even keep a companion with her attitude! Three of the housemaids 'did' for her on a rota system and they all hated it.”

“Kindly summon them”, Sherlock said sitting back in his chair.

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A few minutes later three almost identical young girls were stood in a row by the fireplace, all looking decidedly nervous.

“I thank you all for sparing me some of your precious time”, Sherlock said courteously. “Now, Lady Carfax disappeared on a Friday. Which of you ladies had the onerous task of attending her for that particular day?”

The blonde one of the three stepped forward and curtsied.

“I did, sir”, she muttered.

“You are?” Sherlock asked gently. She looked horrified, seemingly thinking that this was some sort of trick question. Then again, being Sherlock it might well have been!

“Mary, sir”, she quavered. “I do Thursdays and Fridays.”

“Hello, Mary”, Sherlock smiled. The girl seemed to relax a little under his warmth (she was probably going to start simpering at him soon, I thought not at all sourly). “I need to know if Lady Frances went out at all prior to her disappearance, that is all.”

“Only to the library on Thursday, sir”, she said. “I went with her to carry her books.”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “Who had Wednesdays, please?”

“Me, sir”, another girl said stepping forward. “Bobbie. She went to the City on Tuesday and came back in a _foul_ mood; I don't know why! We all hid as much as we could.”

“What about Wednesday?” Sherlock prompted.

“She didn't go out that day but she had two visitors”, the girl said. “Two very large rough-looking men. I didn't like them one little bit!”

“You did well to observe what you did”, Sherlock smiled. He looked at the third girl and frowned. “And you are?”

“Millie, sir”, she said, curtseying. “I do weekends and some Mondays.”

Sherlock nodded and stared at her in silence. She fidgeted.

“I think that you had better tell me _exactly_ what happened, Millie”, he said firmly, his tone quite different from the one with which he addressed the other maids. The girl looked at her friends for support, clearly horrified.

“Sir?” she asked.

“The police statements claimed that Lady Carfax left the house on Friday afternoon without being by her staff, and was not missed until a maid took her tea up at four o' clock precisely”, Sherlock said. “But you clearly know something in addition to that. Please tell us.”

She gulped.

“There's a service-entrance at the back, sir”, she said. “Friday I was cleaning the back room and I opened the door to let in some fresh air. Two men were hoisting a huge crate down the back path and they had a cart waiting in Byland Terrace; it was a fair distance but they looked like the men who had called the Wednesday. I... I thought......”

She trailed off. I knew full well what she had thought.

“You have not mentioned this to the police?” Sherlock asked. 

She shook her head.

“I will pass this information on for you as an anonymous tip-off”, he said to her evident relief. He turned back to Mr. Peartree. “Thank you, sir, for your servants' time.”

Our host dismissed the three maids and as they left the butler arrived with a telegram. Mr. Peartree read it and went pale.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“They have arrested Zee!” he said angrily. “He says that they found the same paper as the ransom note was on the shop counter and the message was written by the same type of pen he keeps next to it. Ridiculous! Anyone could have put that paper there! And it is definitely Fran's writing!”

“I doubt that anyone 'put it there'”, Sherlock said with a smile. “This has indeed been a most interesting case, Mr. Peartree. I suggest that you attend to your partner while the doctor and I will locate your wife.”

“She could be anywhere!” he said bitterly.

“I would expect her to be in only one of four places”, Sherlock said to the mystification of both of us. “We shall of course do you the courtesy of informing you immediately there are any developments. But do not act until I tell you, sir. Your whole future depends on it.”

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“How could you know that Lady Frances could only be in one of _four_ places?” I asked as our cab headed back to Baker Street.

“Because I know the nature of the evil mind behind this foul crime”, he said. “In theory of course she could indeed be anywhere, and I really hope that I am right because I would not wish to have to restrain Mr. Peartree from ruining himself to no end.”

“His wife's life may be in danger”, I reminded him.

“I sincerely doubt that”, he said. “We will dispatch a telegram to Inspector Baldur and ask if he can spare us that efficient new sergeant of his plus a couple of constables. We will have to alert certain other constabularies in case, but if the lady is where I think she is, it would boost the standing of both our old and new police friends to be in on the capture of our criminal. Especially considering who it is!”

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The following day Sherlock and I took a cab to Waterloo Station, where we found three policemen waiting for us. Sergeant Josiah Templar was about twenty-five years of age, a distant cousin of our friend Sergeant David Chapel but built rather differently; tall, lanky and with that sort of vacant look that suggested the lights were on but no-one was home – an appearance that even in his short time here many a London criminal had quickly learned the hard way was _not_ the case! He had arrived to the capital in somewhat difficult circumstances that I shall defer to a later case where I can explain them in full as that was when they were resolved, but I can definitely say that Lancashire's loss was London's gain – although the criminal fraternities of those two places would certainly have viewed things the other way around.

Sherlock purchased five first-class tickets for Sunbury-on-Thames, still refusing to say why we were heading there. He had asked me to bring my revolver, though.

“Not that I think that we will need it”, he said. “Indeed the danger posed by this particular criminal is quite unique. But it is better to be safe than sorry.”

We arrived at the Middlesex railway station and two cabs took us to a large and rather ugly building on the riverside. There were high and spiked metal railings all the way around the outside. I looked inquiringly at my friend.

“It used to be an asylum”, he explained, “but they built a better and larger one across the river in Surrey and sold this as a private house. A rather appropriate choice if our criminal mastermind is indeed here.”

Sherlock knocked at the door, and a footman opened it. To my surprise my friend promptly pushed past him despite the fellow's weak protestations. The four of us hastily followed.

“'Oo is it, Albert?” came an imperious voice from an open door to one side of the huge hall. Sherlock grinned, abruptly changed direction and walked over to it, pushing it open and walking through. We all followed despite the footman's continuing complaints. A large female (I think) dressed in what looked like a circus tent gone sadly awry was sat on the couch, squinting at us in a most unwelcoming fashion.

“'Oo are you?” she demanded haughtily.

“Gentlemen”, Sherlock smiled. “Allow me to present the kidnapper of Lady Frances Carfax. Her name? _Lady Frances Carfax!”_

We all stared at him, dumbfounded. 

“This is a private residence!” the woman snapped. “I will have you forcibly removed!”

“Not until Mr. Holmes here explains what the hell is going on”, Sergeant Templar said firmly, seating his solid frame into one of the large fireside chairs. _“This_ should be good.”

“It is”, Sherlock said. “A wilful attempt to destroy a husband, orchestrated by his own wife.”

“Hardly a wife!” the woman snapped. “I know what he and that so-called partner of his got up to in that nasty little shop of theirs! I saw them _kissing!”_

The unmitigated glee with which she made that statement was frankly sickening. She was not that far from the fire.....

“Quite recently”, Sherlock said, shaking his head at me for some reason (the spoil-sport!), “Lady Carfax here made an unannounced call on her husband at his shop and discovered that his relationship with his business partner was a rather closer one that he had led her to believe....”

“Adultery!” she spat out.

“Fraud, misrepresentation, deception, and a wilful attempt to destroy a human being rather trump that”, Sherlock retorted. “You decided then and there to ruin your husband and his business partner, and you took great pleasure in so doing. You arranged for two ruffians to call on your apartment and made sure that they were seen by your servants both talking to you and loading an object large enough to contain a body into a cart. It was doubtless annoying for you that your own staff disliked you sufficiently not to inform the police of their second departure, but on Friday you left your house unseen and came here.”

“Why here?” I asked.

“I knew from her description that Lady Carfax 'liked her comforts'”, Sherlock said. “Miss St. Leger informed me that the Carfaxes had four country houses; here, one in Norfolk, one in Cornwall and one in Ross and Cromarty. I estimated that since she would not wish to put herself to any more expense than necessary she would choose her nearest residence for her 'bolt-hole', though I did have plans in place for the three constabularies in those areas to check those houses later today if needed.”

“You bastard!” she snapped.

“It takes one to know one”, he retorted. “You were not content with destroying merely your own husband. His business partner had to suffer as well, even though you entered the marriage arrangement with your eyes wide open. You took not only some sheets of writing paper from the shop where your husband's partner worked but also took his pen to write the ransom note with.”

“Has he been charged?” she demanded with an eagerness that I found both sickening and unsurprising.

“He has not”, Sergeant Templar said. “My inspector sent a warning to the inspector of the station who took him in for questioning that developments this day might make such an action look foolhardy in the extreme, and that he should delay for twenty-four hours.”

_(Sherlock had told me that he had been strongly tempted to have allowed the ghastly Sergeant Whitefeather to make an even bigger fool of himself by levying charges one day only to have to retract them the next, but that Mr. Delamore did not deserve that on top of everything else that he had been through)._

“I did nothing wrong”, the harridan said haughtily. “And you are still trespassing!”

“That is debatable”, Sherlock said. “A prosecution for extortion would I suppose be difficult to prove.”

The woman sneered. Sherlock smiled dangerously.

“However”, he went on, “it would have behoved the.... 'female' here to have first checked the contents of her late father's will before embarking on this act of vindictiveness. She is about to find it to have been a most expensive oversight on her part.”

“What do you mean?” Lady Carfax demanded.

“I took the trouble of doing what you palpably did not and read the _whole_ will”, Sherlock said with a knowing smile. “One clause is of particular note. If any of you gets charged with a crime which merits gaol time before Lord Ferdinando reaches the age of thirty, then that person loses any entitlement to the estate, their share being distributed to their siblings. But I am sure that when your brother and sister encouraged you in this foolishness, they did make sure to mention that particular clause?”

From the woman's thunderous expression I surmised that that might just possibly have been a 'no'. The sergeant grinned and pulled out his handcuffs.

“Lady Frances Carfax”, he said slowly, “I am arresting you for attempted extortion. I must caution you that anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you.”

“But that is not the worst part”, Sherlock added. 

“What?” I asked.

“The courts can grant Mr. Peartree a decree _nisi_ on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour”, Sherlock said. “In six months that becomes a decree absolute. Had you waited just two more months my lady, you might have got away with it.”

“He will never get a court hearing that quickly”, she snapped.

“Next Monday, nine o' clock”, Sherlock snapped back. “Sometimes it pays to have friends in high places. Under the terms of your marriage, your husband now has full control of your funds so can complete the purchase of his and his friend's shop.”

She rose and advanced on him with surprising speed for a lady of her bulk but Sergeant Templar was quicker, and he and the two constables restrained her although it took a struggle. She was escorted from the room, hissing angrily but defeated.

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I was happy later that day when we called in at Paddington Station with Sergeant Templar and obtained the release of Mr. Delamore who had been detained for questioning (the sour expression on Sergeant Whitefeather's face was most definitely a joy to behold). Both jewellers thanked Sherlock profusely once they were outside.

“We are going to the shop for a celebration drink”, Mr. Peartree said. “You are welcome to join us, gentlemen.”

“I think that we will let you have some time together”, Sherlock said with a smile. “But be prepared. I intend to recommend Peartree's to several friends of mine over the coming weeks so you may experience a slight surge in business.”

They thanked us again and went off in a cab. Sherlock and I waited for Sergeant Templar and we both took our own cabs, he and his constables to their station and Sherlock and I to dear old Baker Street.

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Postscriptum: There was, I fretted to Sherlock, the danger that a vengeful Lady Carfax might try to ruin her husband by spreading rumours about him and his partner, but through her lawyer Sherlock made clear to her that such a move would be inherently unwise. Miss St. Leger had more than enough on the 'kidnapping victim' to socially ruin her if she tried such a thing. Upon Sherlock's advice Mr. Peartree, very generously in my opinion, agreed to pay his wife a sum if she left the country and did not return, and fortunately she disappeared off to some other less lucky part of the world. 

Although both Lord Ferdinando and Lady Felicia later contracted marriages in an attempt to secure their inheritances, so foul were their characters that the unions did not last six months let alone the necessary year. When he reached thirty a few years later both the lord and his sister were reduced to living off a pittance. Oh dear how sad never mind.

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_Notes:_   
_† In fact Mrs. Wilson had twins, Solomon David Joshua Wilson and Hypatia Athena Lysistrata Wilson. Perhaps mercifully she and her husband decided that their dynasty was secure and stopped there!_

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	11. Case 309: The Adventure Of The Virtuous Heir ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. It's back to school again as Sherlock's thirteen-year-old nephew Master Orlando Thompson asks for his uncle's help over a seemingly trivial name-calling incident at school that had nearly ended in tragedy. But how do you stop a schoolboy from behaving.... well, like a schoolboy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of attempted suicide.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Yet another of the many questions that John and I were asked about the adventures that he published was as to why there were so few involving our own families. Of course we had had run-ins with Mycroft, Torver, Randall and Guilford, as well as helping out Campbell, Carl and Luke (or at least what was left of the latter two nowadays, and there might well be even less if the bastards persisted in telling me about their antics!) , while I had assisted John's lawyer brother Stephen on a number of cases. Not forgetting the numerous times that I had helped out my other family, the Hawke/Buckinghams. 

This was another instance where family provided the spur to a most curious case that involved one of the less pleasant aspects of becoming a man in the modern world, and which ended with someone who failed to take life's hint to change his ways finally getting the message the hard way. Which as things turned out was also the fatal one, but then some people deserved such a painful ending.

I mentioned that to John and he asked if Randall was coming round for some reason. My love is not getting any better in his old age, the rogue!

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The family member in this case was my nephew Orlando, my sister Anna's third son. Her three boys were all very different; seventeen-year-old Brendon was the image of his father and a very solid if unimaginative fellow, while fifteen-year-old Desmond was tall, blond and handsome, and might well have become rather too prideful had he not had as his mother a lady who had grown up with the likes of Torver and Randall and could therefore have taught courses in proficiently pricking pomposity. Then there was Orlando at fourteen, a gypsy of a fellow who took after his paternal grandfather with his black curly hair and wild looks. I knew however that behind the facade he was as solid as his brothers, so when he called on us at Baker Street one day I was surprised to see him looking so serious.

“I do not think that what I am about to tell you has reached the newspapers yet”, he said, “so I would be grateful if you could keep it a secret until it does.”

“We shall so do”, I promised. “What has happened? Not your mother, I hope?”

He shook his head and took a deep breath.

“Des and I go to St. Saviour's as you know”, he said. “It is not bad as schools go and is definitely good for Des as they keep him in his place. But last night one of the boys in his year tried to kill himself!”

We both looked at him in shock.

“How has this not reached the newspapers?” John asked (I wondered that one myself).

“I only know because the poor fellow involved, Jamie Meyrick, has a brother in my year John who is in nearly all of my classes”, my nephew sighed. “We were not close friends or anything but Jonno is very self-contained and he needed someone to confide in before he went home; as we have worked on projects together his tutor asked me to talk to him. Though I had a pretty good idea of what had happened already – there are few secrets in a school – and he confirmed it.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“We have a nasty piece of work in Jamie's year called Clarke”, he said. “Fifteen but he was held back a year because he is so lazy; his mother should be worrying because if he fails his exams at the end of this year – which he will – he will be expelled. He has this thing about calling people names, and he always targets one person because he enjoys watching them suffer.”

He looked at me, clearly willing me to see what was unspoken there.

“You believe that he can detect which are the weaker characters who might break more easily”, I surmised, “and you fear that there are several others in the school against whom he might turn his attentions with equally deadly effect.”

He nodded.

“Lake is a complete milksop who should never have been advanced into his year, even though he has the brains”, he said, looking very serious. “Hallam has a German mother, with all that involves just now, plus he is a bag of nerves. And Peterson is our one black boy; I know that his family struggles to get by although he never says as much. All decent fellows yet I can see Clarke going after any or all of them, perhaps with more bad results.”

He took another deep breath.

“The thing is”, he said gravely, “Clarke always goes for someone who has something.... I do not know the word but something that marks them out. Poor James had this really bad dandruff problem, so that along with his pale skin led to Clarke labelling him 'Snow White'. He marked the boy's things with the name and left it around the school; some of us tried to catch him but we cannot watch him all day.”

“You have brought me a most difficult challenge”, I told my nephew. “Stopping a boy from name-calling and the standard if regrettable bullying – I do not immediately see how it can be done. Why do the boys parents not do anything to stop him?”

My nephew snorted at that.

“His father ran off when he was only three”, he said, “so clearly he had foresight. His mother absolutely dotes on him; nothing is too good for her 'little angel'! What worries me is that she is friends with one of the governors so might be able to prevent the rat being expelled. Another thing, and I only know this because our school secretary has a voice like a foghorn; she is known as 'Mrs. Eb'.”

John and I looked at him in confusion.

“Why?” I asked.

“Like in 'A Christmas Carol'”, he said. “Ebenezer Scrooge. She is at every school function telling everyone how hard-up she is so she cannot offer any money to the school fund, yet whatever Clarke wants he gets.”

I smiled at that.

“That is most interesting, sir”, I said. “Tell me, do any of the bigger boys tease this thug called Clarke?”

“There is nothing about him _to_ tease”, my nephew sighed. “He really is the most boring fellow imaginable except for that mile-wide streak of pure cruelty which, this time at least, only narrowly failed to claim a life.”

“Then he must not be allowed to practice it again”, I said. “I think that we may be able to help.”

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John, being my wonderfully predictable John, somehow managed to convince himself that if he spent the rest of the day fucking my brains out then I would obviously tell him what my plans were. I would not, but I had no objections to him believing that, especially as when we had stopped for a rest (read, sheer exhaustion) at about three we had only fifteen minutes before, showing excellent timing, John's least favourite Great Eastern Railway official called round. I did not believe for a moment that Benji had suffered another sprain in his work, but the sight of the nearly naked fellow leering at me while John mutinously examined him was wonderful, as I knew full well what it would lead to. Once dinner was safely out of the way, it did.

All night!

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Having checked the school timetables with my nephew I knew that there was no danger of the unpleasant Master Ennis Clarke being home (unless by some miracle he was expelled in which case I would surely have heard his fellow pupils and the school staff celebrating from miles away!). So once I had suitably disguised myself I was able to call on his mother unimpeded. She was a large woman who could likely have flattened me if she had fallen in my direction, and the way in which she was simpering at me..... never in a million years!

“My name is Mr. Jeremiah Burke”, I said, “and I am a lawyer with Burke & Brett. I am here today in a rather curious capacity. It concerns your late husband's first cousin once removed, Mr. Virtuous Clarke.”

“I have not heard of that gentleman”, she said, looking suspiciously at me.

“He is of some age”, I said, “and I am afraid that the doctors attending have assured me that his case is quite hopeless. He is however possessed of a considerable estate and it is that which concerns me. And possibly your son.”

I could see that that had immediately got her attention, such that the pound signs were almost flashing in her eyes. Good.

“Mr. Clarke has a reputation for having a.... somewhat irregular sense of humour”, I said. “As a lawyer, I find that sort of thing highly irregular. He has left a part of his estate – I do not know how much, I am afraid – to members of his family provided that they fulfil certain conditions. He arranged these conditions so that it would have been extremely difficult if not impossible for any potential heir to meet them, such is his 'humour'. Now, the second lawyer in the case is a good friend of mine and a very sound man but the third.... I am afraid that he is attempting to grab all the money for himself.”

“The conditions laid down by Mr. Virtuous Clarke are that any _virtuous_ name – in other words, a name of one of the seven virtues – will inherit one-seventh of the allocated part of his estate. But this third lawyer knows a female cousin of our client, and has had her change her name to all seven virtues so that she can claim the whole lot.”

“That is morally improper”, said someone about to do something morally improper.

“However”, I said, “you have a _son_ and that trumps a daughter. The problem however is Mr. Virtuous Clarke. The doctors say he will not last a month and indeed will be lucky if he makes another week. At the moment Miss Charity Faith Fortitude Hope Justice Prudence Temperance Clarke will likely be a very rich young lady once she comes of age.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it!” the woman said fiercely. “You are a lawyer; do you know how to go about changing a boy's name?”

“I have never done that before but I know my partner, Mr. Brett, has”, I said, suppressing a smile. “He has gone home for the day but lives not far from me so I could call in on my way home if you wish.”

“Our ticket to all that lovely money!” she beamed, rubbing her hands together with glee.

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Four days later my nephew called round. I was surprised that he got through the door with a smile that wide.

“Poor Master Charity Faith Fortitude Hope Justice Prudence Temperance Clarke!” he grinned. “He has not been able to hold his head up in the school for days! How did you do it, uncle?”

I felt a silly yet warm glow when he called me that. I explained it all to him.

“But surely his mother can just change his name back again once she realizes that she has been duped?” he asked.

“Even if she did, you know how schools work”, I grinned. “He will forever be known as the Virtuous Heir whatever he or his truly atrocious parent later calls him; it will be his own mark upon which he can expect to be teased like he teased others. Besides, I am arranging for letters from the fake lawyer to be delivered to his mother over the coming year giving her updates about the miracle recovery, relapse, second recovery and final demise of her imaginary relative, which will happen just after her son is finally expelled. She will believe that she will soon inherit enough to send him to Harrow or Eton, only to then receive the sum total of seven farthings for her – and her son's – pains!”

He chuckled at that.

“I do not see Uncle John”, he said, looking around. “Where is he?”

That the boy accepted John as an uncle – I may have sniffed very slightly.

“Sleeping after a rough night”, I said.

“Uncle Sherlock!” he said reprovingly.

“He had to go out to a patient”, I said, shaking my head at him, “so not what you were thinking, nephew.”

“Not this time for once!” my relative muttered.

One could go off children!

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Postscriptum: The 'Virtuous Heir' was indeed expelled from school and unable to resume his education with his 'great inheritance. He changed his name when he was eighteen years of age, his last year of school having been the same sort of Hell that he had put so many others through. I would like to say that he learned from that but alas! he did not and even the Fates eventually lost patience with him. Two years later and within sight of his majority he made the mistake of teasing a very large man who punched him incredibly hard. Not perhaps the wisest move when one is standing on the side of a high bridge...... but at least he made a lovely splash!

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	12. Interlude: Law And Disorder (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. Honestly, what do people think the police are? Public servants?

_**CONFIDENTIAL**_

_[Letter from Superintendent Lee Freeman, Lancashire Constabulary]_

_'Manny,_

_Off the record, but we are having big problems down in that God-forsaken shit-hole they call Weston. We thought that getting rid of that bastard Templar would sort things out proper – all that honesty and integrity crap made a man sick! – but his replacement Coster has all the brains of a peanut. I bet the bastards over in Yorkshire could not believe their luck when he moved here; they probably threw a party to mark his going. And the worst thing is that we have to stick by him otherwise those bastard journalists will start asking questions again. What do they think this is? A free country?_

_I have been Told by those above me that we have to have Templar back again for the investigation into the Williams necklace theft because the stupid tits down in Weston are 'not co-operating with our investigatory efforts'. Seriously, what is wrong with these morons? They pay their rates for our salaries so that we can have nice long weekends in the country and think about what's best for them. It's a brilliant system as anyone can see. We will just have to make sure that Templar does not find anything._

_At least Coster's old town has some good things in it. See you there for the conference next weekend. I'm particularly looking forward to trying that 'interesting' nightclub by the walls; the one (yes, the only) good thing about our new sergeant is that the perverted bastard can get us into really kinky places like that._

_Lee'._

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	13. Interlude: Law And Disorder (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. Sometimes there actually is honour among thieves – provided that you choose the right thief.

_[Narration by Mr. Joseph Cairns, Esquire]_

Things have come to a pretty poor pass in my humble opinion, when the criminals are more honest than the police they send after us. Let alone when it concerns one of the few good coppers in town.... well!

Josiah Templar was the sort of fellow that places like Weston needed more of (and remember, this is a criminal saying that!) but his so called police 'service' had treated him like something the dog had done on the back step. He had been up for promotion and rightly so, but all sorts of shenanigans went down and he had to go to London. At least he got to be a sergeant down there. 

It probably seems weird that a criminal should worry about a copper, but Josiah was a decent stick and he was the only one we had round here. As for that replacement of his, I doubt Coster could find North on a compass! Luckily a friend of mine worked as a cleaner at the police-station and they were able to get me Josiah's address, so I wrote to him asking if all was well. He wrote back the whole sorry story to me, and was I mad! I mean there's criminals and then there's people like those scum who forced him out, and who are paid for by our rates. Fortunately Josiah told me he owed his promotion to the fact that a distant cousin of his who lived in London had once been helped out by the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and that the famous detective had helped him get at least something out of this mess.

I thought about both this and our current lame excuse for a police service in Weston, and decided to write to Mr. Holmes himself to tell him a few things. I didn't expect him to write back, but when he did I was relieved to find my old adversary really was doing well for himself (he was the sort to pretend all was well when it wasn't). One of the things Josiah had not said in his letter to me was just how down he was still feeling after the whole sorry affair – so me and Mr. Holmes, we made a little plan. There may be no honour among the thieves down at Weston nick – the ones on both sides of the bars! – but at least I still had some.

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	14. Case 310: The Adventure Of Josiah's Jumbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. A stolen necklace has been hidden by a thief who was subsequently captured, but he cannot be held indefinitely so the race is on to find it – until some idiot goes off after the wrong elephant! Sherlock helps a friend pick the correct Precedent, and is rewarded with a considerate departure.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Our last but one adventure mentioned the recent advent in our lives of Mr. Josiah Templar, cousin to our friend Sergeant David Chapel. Mr. Templar hailed originally from the town of Weston-in-Makerfield in industrial south Lancashire, and had as John said come to London in what might euphemistically have been described as 'difficult circumstances'. He had been serving as a constable in the Lancashire Constabulary and was in the process of being considered for promotion when a scandal had erupted surrounding some evidence that had gone missing. Happily he had mentioned his troubles to his cousin who had immediately asked me to help, and the real culprit had been shown to be the sergeant at Mr. Templar's station.

Those, unhappily, had not been the 'difficult circumstances'; it might have been better if they had have been. The local constabulary had decided that the proper thing to do was to close ranks and have an internal inquiry which (shock horror!) found the sergeant innocent and Mr. Templar guilty, despite that tiresome thing called 'the evidence'. It took some 'advisory' (an uncharitable person might have said 'threatening') letters from myself to certain people in order to sort matters out, and the cynic in me was not surprised that soon afterwards Mr. Templar's superiors had started making his life difficult. A few more 'advisory' letters to the right people and I secured the fellow not only a transfer to London but also a well-deserved promotion, although unfortunately the rat who had tried to bring about his downfall was allowed to retire early and with a full pension. It was behaviour like that that gave the police service a bad name.

Such a pity that 'someone' just happened to tell the corrupt sergeant's wife about his 'proclivities' just after she had received that free gift of some extra-sharp scissors in the post, ideal for cutting up unwanted clothes. Still, these things do happen. 

This whole mess likely explained the visible unhappiness on the young sergeant's handsome ebony features as our train headed northwards back to his home-town: as I am sure the reader has guessed I was sadly of the opinion that his skin colour had also played its part in his recent troubles. There had just been a major theft and as it had been on Sergeant Templar's old beat beat he had been 'asked' (only a cruel person would have used the term 'begged', so I will) by his former employers to go back and help out. I had explained to John that the reason for this was that local people had been disgusted by the way in which their former policeman had been treated and were therefore being less than helpful. I was not surprised at that; policing in England was and hopefully always would be done by consent, something rather too many of those in authority seemed wont to forget in recent years. Along with who actually paid their salaries.

There was also the fact that the item in question was not only very valuable – a pearl-and-diamond necklace worth several thousand pounds – but that the local police had been guarding it at the time at which it had been taken, so there was more than a degree of embarrassment involved. The presumed thief had been apprehended but he had contrived to get rid of the offending item during his short flight across town and the police had no idea where he had hidden it. So with their being unable to hold him indefinitely the fellow might soon be able to go and retrieve his prize. It seemed to be a race against time.

A generally unpleasant and difficult case was topped off by the fact that the necklace's owner was Lady Ophelia Dove-Williams, the sort of woman who would likely have looked down on Marie Antoinette as being too common. Lady Dove-Williams's husband had died (probably a blessed relief for the fellow, John had quipped; he was as bad as ever!) and she was now running a small empire of factories and mills where the conditions were said to be appalling. About the only positive thing in the whole business was that her stepson Martin was by all accounts a much more sensible fellow although unfortunately as he was two years shy of his majority his terrible stepmother got to run things, albeit alongside a couple of lawyers who hopefully kept her in check. All in all a very sorry situation.

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We had passed Crewe Junction and I think that Sergeant Templar had inspected just about every corner of our first-class compartment when he sat down with a huge sigh. He had as John had correctly observed almost an appearance of imbecility about him that reminded me a little of Alexander Macdonald, our friend Inspector Macdonald's nephew who was still in Warwickshire but had since our encounter moved to Shipston-on-Stour where he had become a sergeant. In both cases I knew that appearances were deceptive; Sergeant Templar too was a sharp fellow and fully deserved his own promotion. I knew that even some of the more cynical officers at Inspector Baldur's station had already been won over by his abilities although I felt it was a little unfair of them to call him 'LeStrade Secundus'. As John had so rightly pointed out, Sergeant Templar actually came round to Baker Street on days when our landlady was _not_ baking!

Damnation, I was getting as bad as John!

“What do we know about this again, sir?” the young policeman asked quietly. He was twenty-four years of age but his 'detached' expression made him look younger.

I checked through my notes.

“On the day of the theft Lady Dove-Williams had the necklace in her possession at five-thirty at the latest”, I said. “She had just entertained guests so had of course been wearing it.”

“Because we _all_ take afternoon tea in our diamonds, ya!” John snipped, waving his hand in a regal manner. I glared at him; I did not know how but he was managing to get even worse!

“There was a police presence because she was hosting an important social event”, I said, still sending my friend a disapproving look. “After the visitors had left she placed the necklace in her safe. Only she and her son know the combination; her two sets of lawyers only know half each which I think demonstrates rather a lot about how much she trusts people.”

“The son?” John asked dubiously. I shook my head.

“One of the best alibis ever”, I said. “He was at choir practice the whole time.”

“Let God be my witness!” John smiled. “What happened, exactly?”

“The theft was discovered at just after six when Lady Dove-Williams went into her study to write a letter”, I said. “As you can probably imagine, all hell immediately broke loose. There was one constable outside the door of the study and another outside the front door. The thief gained entry round the back via the small study window which we know was forced; there was no other way into the building.”

“Was there no alarm on it?” John asked.

“The main window was but the study one they had presumably deemed too small for anyone to enter by”, I said. “A foolish and expensive oversight that may prove, especially if the insurers decline to pay out as a result. The thief, who we may reasonably presume to be the now held Mr. Cairns as there was evidence of his having been in the area, made off and was caught some time later the other side of Weston Victoria Railway Station. That gave him the best part of Station Road in which to dispose of the offending item.”

“Which we have to find”, John said.

I looked at the silent Sergeant Templar. He was never one for verbosity or any unnecessary words for that matter, but something about his silence during this conversation was slightly different. I knew from certain sources of mine that there was rather more to his departure from Lancashire than he had told us, and I felt that despite his very solid appearance he was rather more fragile than he looked, especially when it came to things like..... well, like this.

“The other factor”, I said off-handedly, “is that Lady Dove-Williams is a close friend of the chief-constable of the county, which adds further urgency to the investigation.”

A slight but definite reaction from the sergeant, I observed as John nodded and took the notes for his records. Sometimes I hated being right when I thought the worst of people.

But then that was what I was for. To put those sort of things right and bring justice to all.

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Some while back the 'Times' had done a cartoon lampooning the dreadful conditions of factories and mills like those of Lady Dove-Williams with the caption 'it's grim oop North!'. One change and a short journey on a single-coach train brought us to the aforementioned Victoria Station in Weston-in-Makerfield, a town which seemed determined to live down to that image. True, the cold late winter afternoon and the persistent fog did not do much to improve things but this truly seemed a lifeless place. I hoped that we could remedy matters here quickly and take our silent friend back to London, where he now belonged.

Sergeant Templar was surprised that I checked him into our hotel, presumably thinking that he would have had to make his own arrangements once we got here. I waved away his protests.

“Lady Dove-Williams has offered a large reward for the return of her necklace”, I said, “so we can afford a moderately comfortable local hotel. Also I wish for us to be on the spot as I am sure at least some of the locals will feel inclined to open up more to their former local bobby.”

I actually thought that was true as a look at the map of the town had shown me the thief would have had to travel over three-quarters of a mile past many houses, a row of shops and several businesses amid the evening rush. I did not believe for one moment that no-one had seen anything; the local constabulary was by their recent foolish actions paying a heavy price for losing the trust of the people who paid their salaries.

The only downside of having our friend in our hotel was that I felt less inclined to treat myself to sexy times with my beloved as the silent sergeant might well blunder in on us unannounced (for a large fellow he could move very quietly). It was unlikely, but not a risk I wished to take no matter how much someone pouted, although he would pay for that once we were back home! Plus it meant sleepless nights even though the love of my life was but a few yards away. Life was unfair at times.

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We went to the house of Lady Dove-Williams the following day. I had taken the precaution of ensuring that she was out but even so I noticed the visible reluctance of our policeman friend to enter it. Since she had accepted our involvement in the case (in one of the most graceless telegrams I had ever received; how could someone be that offensive in just twelve words?) we were admitted and spent some time checking around the study, but to little effect.

“You are the expert here, sergeant”, I said. “Does it surprise you that that window was left unalarmed?”

“Her Ladyship is tighter than a duck's.... I mean she is known for not being generous with her money, sirs”, the sergeant said. If not the cake-detecting abilities, he definitely shared with LeStrade the tendency to blush deeply. “I suppose the people fitting the alarm pointed it out but she said it was too expensive.”

“We shall call on them and check that out”, I said. “I wonder how the thief gained access to the safe if only Lady Dove-Williams and her son knew the combination?”

“Someone may have gotten it out of the son, perhaps?” John suggested. “Maybe bought him a drink and loosened his tongue. The folder said that he and his mother do not exactly get on.”

The sergeant snorted at that.

“The boy does not drink”, he said shortly. “His stepmother has all the vices in their family! But Joey Cairns is a skilled safe-cracker; he would not need a code.”

“Since the boy attains his majority in two years time his stepmother's position will then change greatly”, I said. “She has a small income from a sum put aside for her by her late husband but she cannot touch the capital. I am only hopeful that she is not as murderous as she is annoying, rude and loathed by just about everyone bar the chief-constable, although fortunately young Mr. Dove-Williams does also have two younger brothers and a younger sister.”

“Like we need another dead body lately”, John sighed. “I am glad that I brought my gun.”

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Fortunately the company that had fitted Lady Dove-Williams's alarm had a shop a short way up the road, and an inquiry there showed that the sergeant had been right in his surmise.

“Expensive”, John mused, “especially if someone tells the insurance company.”

“Who would dislike her enough to do something like that?” I asked innocently.

“Anyone who knew her!” the sergeant said sourly. We both smiled at that.

The road from Lady Dove-Williams's house ran past several fairly large properties to a crossroads, beyond which the houses were the more usual terraced ones. There was then a steep and curving hill down to the level-crossing by the station, which I thought worthy of note especially as there was no footbridge to avoid it. Any fleeing thief would surely not have risked his escape being cut off by an ill-timed train, although I supposed that they might do what some stupid people did and vault the gates to cross anyway. There was a lot of smoke and steam to add to the fog as the station had a good yards attached which backed on to the gardens of some of the terraced houses by the road. It was dank, dirty and frankly depressing.

We had almost reached the crossroads when I realized that we had lost something, to wit one London policeman. Looking back I saw that Sergeant Templar had that slow thoughtful look of his that meant he was working something out. After about a minute he smiled.

“You said they caught the fellow the other side of Victoria Station, sir?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said. “What of it?”

The sergeant pointed to a frankly unremarkable small shop some way down on the left.

“The plasterer's, sir”, he said as if that explained everything.

We both just looked at him. 

“The thief must have been making for the other station, Weston Prince Albert”, he said. “That is on the main-line so he could have gotten a fast train out of here; Victoria only does stoppers like the one we came in on.”

“So?” John asked.

“There is an alleyway down the side of the plasterer's that comes out in the goods yard and goes right round to the road yonder”, the sergeant said. “He would have been more likely to go that way than risk being cut off by the level-crossing. Maybe that was why no-one saw him.”

“Your local knowledge of the area is proving invaluable, sergeant”, I praised. “Now we need to follow his flight and see if we can find where he may have hidden his haul.”

That however proved easier said than done. None of the first three shop-owners had seen anything (or would admit to having seen anything) although all were pleased to see Sergeant Templar back in the area again. As was Mr. Fallow the plasterer who shook his hand most fervently and promptly got plaster dust all over him.

“We are making inquiries as to the flight of a Mr. Cairns”, I said, “who may have come this way with a rather valuable necklace.”

The plasterer looked at us both uncertainly before turning back to Sergeant Templar.

“Can they be trusted?” he asked. “We all know what happened last time!”

“If the sergeant's efforts do track down the missing necklace I will ensure that he gets _all_ the credit”, I promised.

“He is all right, Paul”, the sergeant said. “He was the one who got me out of here, and promoted.”

The plasterer still looked unsure about us but nodded.

“Chap ran into the shed just after we'd closed up for the night”, he said. “I hadn't locked the place and I heard him from round the front but didn't see him. By the time I got round there he'd gone.”

“How did you know that he had been here, then?” John asked.

“Door was swinging open and I could hear someone running down towards the yard”, the plasterer said. “Plus there were footprints in the dust. Large ones so it weren't one of the kids; you know how they like to play in the railway yard despite being told not to. They sent that replacement of yours Coster round who was as smarmy as ever, but I told him nowt.”

“James Coster”, the sergeant said. “I do not like him.”

I do not know how, but somehow our friend was able to utterly condemn the his fellow policeman by that one short sentence.

“Then wish us luck”, I told the plasterer. “For we shall have to see Mr. Coster next.”

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I reminded myself that even the great Sherlock Holmes could be tried for murder. Then again, I knew more undetectable ways of ending someone's life than most people. Even if caught, I was sure that I could plead justifiable homicide for curtailing the existence of this vile little worm.

What in the name of all that was holy had possessed the Lancashire Constabulary to lose someone as talented as Sergeant Templar in favour of this pitiful and utterly loathsome excrescence? Unless the idea was to make criminals feel so repelled that they confessed immediately, on the promise that they could spend a long time in gaol not seeing him? My fists itched to slap the fellow and I could see from John's face that I was not alone.

“We have a _clew_ , sir”, Sergeant Coster whined and even his voice was annoying. It sounded like the station-announcer at Paddington had worn a pair of trousers that were at least two sizes too tight. 'Da next twain is for Bwistol Temple Meads calling at Aling, Hyes and Hawlington, West Dwayton, Sly, May-Dunnid, Wedding....'

I forced a pleasant look onto my countenance. It took some effort.

“What is that?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“We had someone heaves-dwopping when dat wat Cairns was whisp'wing to someone in da next cell”, Sergeant Coster grinned. “Said about hiding it in da 'Jumbo!”

We all looked at him in surprise.

“He hid the necklace in a passing elephant?” John said flippantly.

The unpleasant sergeant scowled. I hid a smile.

“Hoi have no idea what it means”, he said shortly. “Hoi shall be sending my men to scour da awea tomowow and see if dey can foind anyfing.”

I had the distinct impression that Sergeant Templar's thought processes had juddered into gear again but he said nothing. He could probably beat this lame excuse for a policeman into a pulp without breaking a sweat, which would of course have been a problem unless he first remembered to give us time to look the other way.

“There was no toyshop there”, John mused, “so it cannot have been a toy elephant.”

I had a feeling about this and specifically about that 'Jumbo'. Well, time would tell.

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I was beginning to fear that poor Sergeant Templar was going to explode if one more person came up and said how they had missed him, how nice it was to see him back in the area and was he not looking well? Still it did him good to see how much he was truly valued by people.

Our two waitresses were also smiling as they looked at him while the three of us were at lunch the following day when we were suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a very pleased-looking Sergeant Coster. He sat down without being invited; I caught one of the waitresses making a quite obscene gesture that would have had me frowning at her had it not been entirely merited. I made a mental note to tip her later.

“Hoi thought we didn't need _your_ help, sir!” he grinned. “We'll have dat necklace back by dis evenin'.”

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Hoi went round to dat idiot plastewer's place and asked him about Jumbos”, Sergeant Coster said. “Impudent sod looked at me as if hoi was mad, but as usual hoi was wight. He'd had four dozen daft money-boxes in da shapes of elephants weady for dispatch; Cairns must've broken in dare and hidden da necklace in one. Hoive got addresses for all the buyers so one of dem has to have it. Hoim so bwilliant!”

 _I am amazed that your ego fitted through the door_ , I thought maybe just a tad acidly as he stood and left without saying goodbye. Not that we were sorry to see him depart. I went over to tip the waitress.

When we left, Sergeant Templar said he wanted to go and speak to some people at the station, and I thought it better that he be unaccompanied. Besides I had had some more information from Miss St. Leger in London – seriously, did that lady ever sleep? – and although I was saddened by its content I was not in the least bit surprised.

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The following day we called at the police-station to find a rather subdued Sergeant Coster, far removed from his cock-sure attitude of less than twenty four hours ago.

“Nudding!” he said dourly. “Not only dat, damn papers got wind of it and are full of 'police being houtwitted' cwap. Bosses are wight annoyed. Hoi checked but da wecipients each had da boxes still sealed. Unless dat bloody plastewer is lying and took it for himself. Wouldn't put it past him.”

“I hardly see how he could dispose of it”, I said mildly. “You will of course have to release Mr. Cairns.”

“What?” he said incredulously. “Why?”

“At the moment all that you have on him is that he was seen in the vicinity of a house where a burglary took place”, I pointed out. “I doubt that any jury would convict him on that.”

“You seem more on da side of da cwiminals dan us coppers”, Sergeant Coster said, eyeing his fellow sergeant with disfavour.

“I am on the side of justice”, I said simply. “I am here to ensure that justice will be done.”

 _“You_ didn't find da necklace eider”, the excrescence retorted.

“I prefer to use other methods to achieve my ends”, I said airily. “The necklace will be back with the Dove-Williams family by tomorrow. I am sure of that.”

“We'll see!” Sergeant Coster said sourly.

I tried not smile at the bell-boy who was gesticulating something that was surely impossible, especially with an umbrella that size. On the other hand they do say that every hypothesis should be _fully_ tested.....

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John was really annoyed that I would not tell him how I could be so sure of success and pouted all the way back to the hotel. He pouted even more when there was a message waiting for Sergeant Templar which read simply '2177 Edward Tootal', and led to his going out again and John pouting some more in the hope that I would enlighten him (I did not). I did however treat my beloved to two chocolate slices from the local bakery to make him feel better. 

He had a nap before dinner and the sergeant arrived back just as we were going down to eat. I smiled at him.

“Welcome, sergeant”, I said. “Did you get it?”

“Did he get what?” John asked.

The sergeant nodded and reached into his pocket from which he handed me a paper bag. I opened it and looked inside then smiled before showing it to John. He gulped when he saw the contents.

“Is that..... it?” he asked. I nodded.

“A paper bag containing several thousand pounds worth of pearls and diamonds”, I said. I looked pointedly at Sergeant Templar before continuing. “Now all we have to do is restore it to the Dove-Williams family.”

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“John and I shall be meeting Lady Ophelia today”, I told Sergeant Templar over breakfast the following morning. 

He went rather pale, as I had known he would. 

“Do you.... wish me to be there, sir?” he asked carefully.

John looked at me curiously.

“Do you wish to be there, sergeant?” I countered.

I thought for one horrible moment that he might start crying, but fortunately he held it together. 

“I think that our time in Weston is done”, I said quietly. “We shall be catching the half-past one train home. If you would rather spend the intervening time with your friends in the town and on the railway – especially those who as we might say 'set a Precedent' – then that would probably be for the best.”

He looked absurdly grateful at that.

“Thank you sir!”

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“I do not understand”, John said later as we waited for Lady Dove-Williams's arrival. “What was all that about the necklace being hidden in a Jumbo? And people setting a Precedent?”

I really wished that he would not pout like that. I did not wish to have to face a titled personage (even one as unpleasant as this one) just moments after ravishing my beloved and if he continued to look like that.... well, we still had a couple more hours in our room upstairs.

“I mentioned earlier that the worlds of the police and criminality are close”, I said. “It was ironic in this case that the gentleman who helped Sergeant Templar secure justice in this matter was the thief, Mr. Cairns.”

 _”What?”_

“A rare instance of the much talked about honour among thieves”, I said. “Some things disgust even criminals, and Mr. Cairns was one of many in the area who considered the constabulary's treatment of our friend utterly reprehensible. He wrote to me in London to see if things had indeed worked out well for him, and we arranged a few things between us. Mr. Fallow the plasterer most ably assisted in the act of 'thievery' by making sure that the escape route was left open and then enabling Sergeant Coster to look the fool, although to be fair the second of those did not take that much effort. I had used my contacts to persuade the constabulary that they should ask for Sergeant Templar's help in the matter, and he was able to follow the clues we placed for him to where the necklace had been hidden.”

“But what about the Jumbo?” he said.

“The constabulary which had so mistreated Sergeant Templar made a fool of itself by declaring that it had the case all but solved – I made sure to pass that pompous ass Sergeant Coster's boastings to the local newspaper – then too late realizing that it had not. The clue was the railway goods yard behind Mr. Fallow's shop. The London & North Western Railway Company has a successful class of passenger locomotives officially called the Precedents† but an improved version of them, although rather sadly named 'Improved Precedents', is so large that they have been nicknamed 'Jumbos' after the famous elephant. _That_ was what the message for our friend meant; number 2177 is the engine whose crew Mr. Cairns entrusted with the precious necklace. All Sergeant Templar had to do was inquire as to which of those locomotives happened to be in the yard at the time of the theft and to then wait for their return. They brought the necklace back and handed it over.”

“They were not tempted... you know.”

I smiled at his slight incoherence.

“The determination to secure justice for their friend ran deep”, I said. “The constabulary made a spectacular blunder in their handling of the whole affair, especially when one considers that in this country policing is done by consent. I sent their former star pupil to the railway station early as I did not wish him to be around when Lady Dove-Williams arrives; doubtless he has many people to thank there for their roles in helping him.”

He shook his head at all this and frankly I did not blame him. Worse, he did not yet know the whole of this sorry tale, and as we had just eaten that was a good thing. I felt slightly queasy myself, but fortunately there had been a bacon option so I had been able to force some down.

I had been truly upset, as I only managed four‡ rashers.

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Lady Ophelia Dove-Williams arrived in a burst of perfume that, I am sure, was already starting to kill the nearby potted plant as she was sitting down in the hotel reception room. She was one of those women in her early forties who had yet to realize that fifty tons of make-up did not make her look any younger, and whatever colour she had been trying for when she had dyed her hair recently, she had achieved only a bizarre mauve-grey combination. I knew that villains came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, but frankly this was pushing it.

“Greetings, my lady”, I said. “I have some news for you concerning your necklace. I have found it.”

“That is wonderful!” she boomed. “Where is it?”

“I handed it over to your stepson this morning.”

Her face fell like a rock thrown off Beachy Head. From a trebuchet.

“You did _what?”_ she thundered. Several people nearby looked across at the sudden noise.

“He says that he will be selling it and using the money to improve conditions in your family's mills and factories”, I said. “Rather more useful than an expensive gewgaw.”

“He cannot do that”, the woman said stoutly. _”I_ have control over our estates for the next two years.”

I reached into my pocket and extracted two things, a folded single piece of paper and a set of papers tied together with red ribbon.

“What are those?” she demanded.

“The single paper is a Certificate of Revocation”, I said. “You will sign it and grant control of your estate over to your stepson. Naturally he will need assistance, but I have recommended an excellent Manchester lawyer who can assist him until he comes of age.”

“Why would I do that, _sirrah?_ she sniffed.

I showed her the second set of papers.

“When I heard that Sergeant Josiah Templar had been having problems with his position in the Lancashire Constabulary”, I said, “I asked myself – _why?_ There was of course the obvious and unpleasant matter of his skin colour likely being a factor, but I happen to know the sergeant's cousin down in London and he told me that there was rather more to it, so I dug deeper. After all good police officers are hard to find, and Lord knows when I see the alternative is the likes of the feckless and useless Mr. Coster then the loss was an even more egregious one. I did not like it that when I checked, Sergeant Templar's excellent record came to a sudden end with that mysterious matter of the stolen evidence.”

“I am fortunate that my many years of work have given me contacts in both the police _and_ the criminal fraternity. The difference between the two is often not as wide as it should be. I was able to find out that my friend's troubles started the very day after he was given one particular assignment, one for which he had been specifically requested. To wit, guarding _your_ house.”

She stared at me in stony silence. She knew full well what was coming.

“I really hoped that I was wrong”, I said heavily, “as the mental images involved were most unpleasant, but a check of the constabulary files showed that I was not. Four different constables had been assigned that duty before my friend. All were handsome young men and every single one of them went on to what their colleagues rightly considered unmerited promotions. Because they all said yes to your advances – but my friend said no, and for you that was unforgivable.”

“You have no proof of this!” she hissed, but I could see that she doubted her own words.

“I have informed the chief-constable of my findings”, I said icily, “and he has been advised that his force will be being monitored _very_ closely in future. You yourself have a choice, madam. You can sign everything over to your son, or you can endure social ruin and humiliation the likes of which the gentlemen and ladies of Lancashire will be discussing for many a long year.”

She stared at me for some time before uttering an obscenity that I shall not repeat, if only because I had to look it up afterwards. She grabbed the pen on offer and signed at the mark before sweeping out of the room. John let out a huge sigh of relief and I could not but agree.

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A short time later we were back at Wigan, boarding the express for London. Annoyingly this was a corridor train (many were these days especially on the main lines, worse luck!) although it was one where the front first-class compartment was partly blocked off by one of those seemingly pointless doors in the corridor itself. Still, only a few hours to go.

The tall sergeant suddenly stood up and walked over to open the door.

“Sergeant?” John asked.

“Going back to second-class, sirs”, he said.

“But....” I began. He stopped me with a knowing look.

“I doubt you'll survive until London, not the way you keep looking at the poor doctor”, he grinned. “Just make sure you lock the corridor door after me – I am sure you have something that you can jam it with – and try to leave him in one piece!”

Chuckling, he left. I stared after him then hurried to lock both the corridor door and the only other way into our compartment, the door out on the right. Then I was back in our compartment and.....

_Ye Gods, how had he got naked so fast?_

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Postscriptum: Young Mr. Martin Dove-Williams duly paid me the reward for the return of the necklace, and I passed it on to a shocked Sergeant Templar (who as I had known he would, passed it on to his friends back in Lancashire; Mr. Cairns, Mr. Fallow and the crew of engine number 2177 included). The new factory owner also clearly had something of a cruel streak for he made his mother move into one of the self-same cramped and inadequate terraced houses that she had once deemed 'far too good for _my_ people'. She had to endure that for the rest of his minority, nearly two years, but at the end he granted her a small allowance and purchased a small house for her at the other end of the county (personally I would have gone for the other end of Siberia!). She lived out her remaining days there quietly and, miracle of miracles, seemed to have actually learned her lesson. 

Unlike, it might be said, two of Sergeant Templar's former bosses who soon after were 'unlucky' enough to get caught coming out of a rather risqué night-club in York with a certain Lancashire sergeant after which they were all forced to resign. How extremely unfortunate for them that they had been spotted by a group of local journalists who all 'just happened to be passing'. Still, they do say that accidents will happen.

_If I have anything to do with it!_

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_Notes:_   
_† There were 50 Precedents (built 1874-1882) and 158 Improved Precedents or Jumbos (built 1887-1901), both types being 2-4-0 locomotives, the standard express engine of their day and similar in size to 'Silver Blaze' from an earlier railway-themed case. Jumbo 2177 'Edward Tootal' (built 1895, scrapped 1911) was named after Sir Edward Tootal Broadhurst (1858-1922), a major cotton-factory owner, while Jumbo 790 'Hardwicke' (built 1892, withdrawn and preserved 1932) was named for Hardwicke Hall, home to the famous Elizabethan Bess of Hardwick. 'Hardwicke', as of 2020 nearly 130 years old, can usually be seen at the National Railway Museum in York._   
_‡ Sherlock seems to have misspelled 'eleven' for some reason....._

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	15. Case 311: The Adventure Of The Gila Lizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. With John out of commission for a time, Sherlock has to deal with something slimy, repulsive and slow-moving, and as it has four legs it's not his brother Randall (at least to start with). But appearances are oftentimes deceptive, and the truth can REALLY hurt!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

There is, if I am being fair, the most microscopic of possibilities that the slight smile on my face could have been misinterpreted by an uncharitable observer as a smirk.

All right, make that a large possibility. Also that the English city doctor lying broken but happy in the next room just may have had something to do with that. Possibly.

John and I had had a memorable return from our successful case in Lancashire, a frustrating time for me as the case had required our taking poor Sergeant Templar back to the scene of his earlier travails. That gentle giant was someone who was not the only person to get exactly what they deserved out of that case, but he had more than repaid my work by taking himself to the other end of the train back to London and giving us some five hours to work off our sexual frustrations. Contrary to what John claimed when he saw my notes of the case I did not 'strut' as we made our way off the platform at Euston, nor did I smirk all the way back to Baker Street. Especially not every time he whined when we went over a bump in the road.

Law of averages; there surely had to have been one that I had missed.

Mr. and Mrs. Malone were away visiting friends upon our return but Mrs. Rockland had clearly known what had happened, at least judging from her knowing smile when I said that the rooms would not need to be attended to by the maids for a week at least and that all meals were to be left outside. Muttering 'go get him!' to me as I followed ( _not_ chased) John up the stairs was perhaps pushing it but I was in no mood to discuss such trifles. I had far more important matters to delve into.

So to last night, some four weeks after our return. I had wondered if John might appreciate a rest, but any such thoughts had been dispelled when we had had a surprise visit from his least favourite Cornish ex-fisherman, my friend Lowen. The young fellow was as I have said before now in a committed relationship with both his fellow molly-man Salerio, whose divorce from his most unpleasant and grasping wife (we are almost talking 'Lady' Dove-Williams levels here) I had helped to secure, and his lover's twin brother Solario, but the Cornishman clearly enjoyed the fact that John did not like him one little bit when he leered at me. I also knew that John got far more possessive after each of his visits and that that would add an edge to his love-making. Nearly always considerate to the point of stopping every few minutes to make sure I was fine with his pounding me into the mattress, he was far more prone to let rip when provoked. I loved it!

There is the faint possibility that I may have remarked how well the Cornishman was looking, and how very fit he was for someone now in his forties even if he was _eight years younger_ than John. Such remarks may or may not have annoyed someone ever so slightly. Oh well.

I smiled at the memory of him folding me in half and growling 'all mine!' as he had arched his back and snarled his defiance at the heavens (or at least at any Cornish ex-fishermen still in the vicinity). I was so damn lucky!

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It was odd that I had been thinking of Sergeant Templar that particular April morn because the gentleman himself arrived at Baker Street not long after I had finished breakfast (I had had to take John's in to him as he was not yet capable of such major activities as standing, and the sweet man had still given me half his bacon!). And afterwards he had slumped back down and was snoring in under a minute.

Still not a strut.

The tall sergeant sat himself down looking decidedly more flustered than usual. I could well guess why.

“Mrs. Rockland's friend Miss Sweethams?” I hazarded. 

He groaned. Miss Desdemona Sweethams was one of those overly keen young females who nearly always engendered the same reaction in nearby males, namely to flee for the hills with all speed. She well lived down to the famous 'Times' cartoon of 'Miss Desperate To Be A Housewife' always in search of a man, any man. John loathed her for always simpering at me and did not like me going downstairs when she was in 221B. But at least he liked me going down when....

My mind was not exactly helpful at times.

“Please say that you can slip me me out Siddons Lane way when I leave!” the sergeant sighed. “That woman is a menace! Thank you again over that Weston business, sir. I hope that the doctor is all right?”

“He will recover”, I said equably. “He may even manage standing up by the end of the day, or he may not. Has your visit anything to do with the new station, perchance?”

The Metropolitan Police Service was, like the capital, expanding and a new police-station had opened up on the borders of Sergeant Templar's own. The borders between each area were as ever a source of unnecessary friction – John has rightly remarked on several occasions as to how parochial some of the upper ranks of the constabulary could be, defending their 'patch' like a medieval baron defending his ancestral lands and seemingly forgetting that they were all supposed to be on the same side against the criminals. Human nature sometimes had a lot to answer for.

The sergeant nodded and looked decidedly awkward. 

“Sergeant Whitefeather!” he sighed heavily.

Ah. Sergeant Craig Whitefeather, someone almost as bad as the recently-encountered and never to be forgotten now ex-Sergeant Coster. Incredibly the London nuisance had actually applied for a promotion recently, but thankfully even the Metropolitan Police Service had not yet become that desperate. The reader will remember that Sergeant Templar was only recently promoted so he was in effect at the bottom of the 'sergeants' pecking order' and had to defer to the likes of Sergeant Whitefeather. 

“He used his connections to dump this case on me”, the sergeant sighed, “because he thinks that it will give me a black mark. He was hoping that with the new area he would be made inspector but instead he is sergeant over a smaller area, and he had made it clear that he does not like me because... you know.”

I knew, and I really wished that I could have been surprised that racism would have found a place on that particular excrescence's long, long, _long_ list of failings.

“We must endeavour to ensure that he is disappointed when you succeed, them”, I said. “I am completely at your disposal and so will the doctor be when he can stand up again. How can we help?”

The young giant took a deep breath.

“Last month a gang of four thugs broke into the vaults of the Capital & Eastern Bank in Duncannon Street, just off the Square”, he began. “Whole load of snooty places along there, as you know. The villains knew what they were after; Lady Morland's diamonds no less. We thought we had cornered them there when there was a shoot-out – I swear sir, this city is getting more like the Wild West every day! – but one of them got away.”

“You know that for sure?” I asked. He nodded.

“Gangs are very parochial”, he said, “and these four worked together for some years. That bastard – pardon my French, sir – Mr. Bramble's motley crew. When we only found three bodies – Ballas, Harmsworth and Smith; no loss to Mankind in any of them – so we knew Bramble had to have gotten away.”

“To his house?” I asked.

“That was the odd thing”, the sergeant said. “We knew where he lived of course but he had enough sense to not go there, at least not straight away. We posted a watch on the place but nothing for a whole week. Then one night he must have slipped in under cover of darkness; we spotted him there the following morning.”

“So you arrested him?” I asked. The sergeant shook his head.

“He was found shot dead before we got there”, he said. “We think that a woman called Diana Buster may have been behind it; she was a former girlfriend of his and maybe close enough for him to have let on where he had stashed the loot. Last mistake he ever made. There was evidence that the place had been searched – and worst of all, the next house along is owned by Sir Edmund!”

Ah. _Now_ I saw his problem.

“As in Lieutenant-Colonel Henderson, the new Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police”, I said. “Your ultimate superior. I am surprised that the vultures of the press have not fastened on that fact, considering their usual efficiency when it comes to ferreting such things out.”

“It is registered in his wife's maiden name”, he explained, “as she came into it before she married, but they will find out soon enough. When they do, you can guarantee that I will be the one to get it in the neck for not solving the crime quickly enough. You know how things are.”

Sadly I did. Overt racism was now frowned upon in the upper ranks of the police service but a black policeman who made a mistake or failed in some way was much more likely to face negative consequences than a white one. It was wrong but it was the way of the world, especially when one had a rival (in the loosest sense of that word) who was both waiting and hoping for any slip-up. I thought for a few moments.

“Did this Mr. Bramble not have anyone else to him to whom he might have spoken about his prize?” I asked.

“Two sons and a daughter, sir, and it is a toss-up to say which of the three he hated the most. The eldest, Gordon, is very much a chip off the old block; he tried to diddle his dear old dad out of the proceeds of one of his jobs some time back so they have not been talking since. The second, John, is just as bad if not worse but at least he has not been so dumb as to cross his dad directly, although word is that they did not talk. I think he married someone his dad thought beneath him, which is a joke if ever there was one! The third, the daughter Virginia; she is inside at the moment over her involvement in a murder and with no hope of getting out any time soon, so I suppose that she is in the clear.”

“Although she might have had someone do it for her”, I said, “in return for a cut of the proceeds. We both know how these things work. Does Mr. Gordon Bramble inherit the house?” 

“Eventually, sir”, he said. Seeing my confusion he continued, “he is away in Germany just now – he married a woman over there which his dad hated him for even more – so Brother John has already moved in to keep an eye on his father's pet lizard. Two slime-balls together, I'd say.”

I looked up sharply.

“Lizard?” I said perhaps a little too loudly. There was an annoyed grunt from the next room but then silence; the sergeant smiled slightly. “Do you happen to know what sort?”

“Only that they say it is one of them poisonous ones, sir”, my visitor said clearly surprised at my interest in a mere reptile. “Is it important?”

“When did Mr. John Bramble move into the house, exactly?” I asked. 

The sergeant looked at the calendar on the wall.

“Sixteen days ago, sir”, he said. 

_Over two weeks_ , I thought. _Perhaps just long enough._

“Can you get one of your men at the station to bring Mr. John Bramble in for questioning as a matter of urgency?” I asked.

“We could”, the sergeant said. “But why, sir?”

“Because I want him out of that house”, I said. “Someone inside it has the secret to locating where his late and unlamented father hid the Morland diamonds and I wish for Mr. Bramble not to be there when that secret comes out. It partly depends on that repulsive creature.”

It was strange that just as I uttered those words there was a knock at the door, and before I could answer it was opened by none other than Miss Desdemona Sweethams in a dress that even the dinosaurs might have thought unfashionable. Worse, she was looking at my guest like he was the last barley-sugar in the bag. Sergeant Templar snorted at the timing but looked visibly alarmed. 

“Sergeant, I think that we need to go there _right now!”_ I said to him.

His look of gratitude was overwhelming, as was our visitor's evident disappointment!

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We did not in fact go straight to the house as I wished to have John with me, and he was not up to.... well, anything much for the rest of the day. But we did step out for a while to allow the sergeant to make his escape, and I arranged to meet up with him the following day at 'Dunrobbin' (I held to the view that the French had one thing right in that people should not be allowed to use certain names for both houses and offspring). Instead I sent a message to Miss St. Leger and made sure that certain information reached certain people whose reactions I could certainly count on.

The following day John had recovered enough to make the journey, although he still moaned occasionally as we made the monumental trek down the stairs of 221B to where Mrs. Rockland may or may not have been smirking but still had that gun collection, so we wisely did not see any facial expressions whatsoever. Then it was a cab-ride (still rather painful for 'someone'!) to a large house in a fairly upmarket area of Marylebone where we again met the sergeant. 

We were soon inside and in a large but dark room that was dominated by a cage, inside which a two-foot long striped and sandy-coloured lizard was glaring balefully at us.

“Are you _sure_ it is not dangerous, sir?” the sergeant asked warily. I noted that he was skulking behind me (impressive given his size; only a cruel consulting detective would have observed that he was not the only one doing that), and bit back a smile.

“We shall be avoiding it as much as possible”, I said, “and its bite can be fatal if one does not get it treated immediately. But it is exceptionally slow-moving, so we are safe. Indeed it is rather akin to the admirable bumble-bee if on a somewhat larger scale; both will only attack if provoked. We shall not be so unwise as to provoke it.”

“What if it is hungry?” John fretted.

“In the wild the creatures can get by on as little as five large meals a year”, I said. “Observe the curiously long and thick tail; it is used to store fat. A most efficient killing machine all told but not dangerous to those wise enough to keep clear of it. Although that of course does not cover all people.”

I smiled to myself as I heard a faint but distinctive sound from the hallway we had not long left. I had taken the precaution of placing a small ball-bearing by the doormat, and sure enough that was the sound of it rolling across the parquet flooring before someone managed to stop it. There was also the faintest drawing of breath and then silence.

I carefully opened the cage door, having already made sure that there was a clear passage all through the house for it. I only hoped that the low-slung creature would not have to manage the stairs but I suspected that that would not be a problem. For some little time it continued to watch us with sleepy half-interest then clambered to its feet and lumbered slowly through the exit, snuffling the floor as it went.

“The creature is a gila monster, from the south-western United States”, I explained to my friends. “As I said it can be deadly, but the only people who have been killed by it are those who either provoked a creature for reasons of abject stupidity or who scared one by getting too close. As you can see from its gait, a child could out-walk the beast.”

“Still gives me the creeps!” the sergeant shuddered. “Why did he not keep a cat or a dog, like normal folks?”

“Because this creature might earn someone a huge sum of money”, I said. “Observe.”

The repulsive lizard had clearly picked up some sort of scent from the way it was sniffing around one particular patch of floor. It seemed to be thinking about it then lumbered off again, slowly but purposefully. A child crawling on its hands and knees could have outpaced the thing.

“Gila monsters have an exceptional sense of smell”, I said to the sergeant. “There are stories of them being able to track down an egg merely from it having been rolled across a surface.”

The sergeant's eyes lit up.

“I get it”, he said. “So Bramble hid the jewels somewhere with a load of food, and left a trail there?”

“Exactly”, I said. “Now where is it going?”

The lizard had hesitated briefly in the centre of the corridor before turning and heading into what turned out to be the library. It ambled slowly across the parquet floor effecting a neat quarter circle until it bumped up against a panel in the wall.

“Well done, Sher!”

We all three span round. Two men had entered the room, neither of whom I would have wished to have near me in normal circumstances. My annoying brother Randall and Sergeant Craig Whitefeather.

“Good of my friend here to have found the jewels”, Randall smirked. “Sergeant?”

His associate paled.

“You want me to go near _that_ thing?” he shuddered. “It's disgusting!”

“For Heaven's sake!” Randall snapped. “It is only a lizard. How dangerous can it be?”

He moved towards the creature. 

“I really would not do that, Randall”, I said laconically, knowing full well that my words would have zero effect on him. As usual I was right. My brother scowled at us all.

“Like I am afraid of..... aaarrghhh!”

I blinked. I had not even seen the creature move, but my brother was wailing in agony and clutching his hand. I sighed and looked at John.

“Do I _have_ to?” he pouted.

“Hippocratic Oath”, I reminded him. _“No exceptions!”_

He sighed and went over to remove the poison from the pest. I noted that Sergeant Whitefeather had already fled, and smiled. I had posted Benji and some of his friends outside the house to stop him running to the newspapers and trying to claim the credit. I was sure that they would 'persuade' him – _one way or another!_

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It is possible that John was maybe perhaps just a little rough in his treatment of Randall, for which I really should have reprimanded him. I would get round to it. Some time this century. Ish.

“But why did Mr. John Bramble not use the monster to track down the jewels like we did?” Sergeant Templar asked. “Surely he could have worked out what his father had done?”

“Because as I said, in the wild the creature eats only very rarely”, I explained. “You saw the size of the beast; moving that bulk requires a lot of effort so few and large meals make for the greatest degree of efficiency. Mr. John Bramble had to wait for it to get hungry before it would oblige him; the creature was not inclined to move that huge bulk around unless it absolutely had to.”

The sergeant thought for a while. As I have mentioned he often gave the impression of mental slowness but many Londoners of a criminal persuasion had learned the hard way that appearances, perhaps a little like the lizard now safely locked back in his cage with its meal, could be deceptive.

“Lady Morland will be over the moon!” he grinned. “And Sergeant Whitefeather?”

“Certain friends of mine are 'entertaining' him for the rest of the day”, I said, “until we can get the story of how a brave London sergeant overcame a terrible and fearsome monster to retrieve Lady Morland's diamonds.”

“You are sure you do not want your name brought into it, sir?”

“This should be your case”, I said with a smile. “Though if Lady Morland offers a reward then yes, I would welcome a half-share of it.”

“Only half?” the young fellow asked, clearly surprised.

“I will pass it onto the Baker Street Orphanage”, I said. “You have your own life to build, family and all. Maybe even......”

 _”Not_ Miss Desdemona Sweethams!” he said fervently. “I would rather go back and face that bloody lizard!”

John and I both chuckled at that.

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Postscriptum: It was definitely not Miss Desdemona Sweethams; indeed it was someone loosely known to us. In our last year in Baker Street, 1904, we would perform a service for the then-grown Galahad LeStrade, our cake-loving friend Gawain's grandson, as one of our very last cases from our most famous address. Shortly after that Galahad's sister Vivien, then just sixteen, came up to see her brother from Devonshire and met Sergeant Templar, and they were married in 1906. John and I were deeply honoured to be asked to stand as godfathers to their first-born son Joshua (born 1907). There was even a happy ending for the lizard who I persuaded London Zoo to take on. I try to help out all of God's creatures.

Except perhaps Miss Desdemona Sweethams.

Yes, even Randall, who I made sure was visited by Mother while in hospital. After all, everyone loves it when family members come by and reads them 'Neighbours', the story of how one pioneering and well-hung Australian fellow worked his way through a new settlement 'helping' both ladies and gentlemen, because some kind younger brother suggested such a thing. I do try to be helpful like that!

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	16. Case 312: The Adventure Of The Blackmailed Paladin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. A retired colonel stands accused of betraying his country – can Sherlock clear his name and find the person behind the accusations? Meanwhile John's brother Stephen both gives and gets a surprise.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of the questions that my readers sometimes asked me was as to why, with my being so close to a famous detective (indeed!) and my brother being a lawyer, were there no cases ever published in which I invoked Sherlock's great abilities to help out Stevie? The answer is partly in the fact that my brother's profession meant that the people who sought his services were by their natures disinclined to use a consulting detective, and upon looking through my records I find that Sherlock helped him out on precisely seven separate occasions. Two of those – by a curious coincidence the two from that first year of the new century – can now be added to this final (1936) Sherlock canon; my friend has made notes on the others and maybe they too will eventually see the light of day.

I knew that Stevie was involved in a major case that year as most unusually he had been compelled to move temporarily down to London, his firm having been employed as the case involved an element of Scots law (thankfully Sherlock's and my now annual gift of time with that nanny agency had meant that Hetty received all the support she needed with their small family). Of course I did not ask what it was about; those details were solely for him and his clients. However his decision to involve us in the case led to an unusual outcome that in the circumstances was possibly the best that could have been achieved for almost everyone, except of course the guilty party. 

And, as things turned out, possibly for Stevie himself.

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The (Second) Boer War although still ongoing at this time had moved from the full-scale battle stage to one where the Boers were resorting to guerrilla warfare, something that their lands were well suited to. The British government had interned many prisoners in prison or concentration camps where the conditions were terrible. In light of certain comments made by later self-proclaimed historians I should point out two things here; the high fatality rates in these camps was caused by incompetence rather than malice (Sherlock had that checked out by the ever-efficient Miss St. Leger) and these were not the first example of such internment practices as they had been practised for decades by the United States against the Red Indian tribes. I particularly emphasize the latter in view of criticism from across the Pond which quite correctly elicited the Biblical response about motes and beams. History should be about what actually happened, not what some opinionated idiot in later times chooses to maliciously misinterpret because they just _know_ that they are right and those irritating things called facts are plain wrong! And if anyone says different, then they will cry and tell mummy!

The mismanagement of the camps in South Africa was however still completely indefensible and, with that sad inevitability that always seems to surround governments of all types these days, every effort was made – not to improve matters but to cover up the incompetence. However British politicians and officials had not reckoned on two strong-minded people working to frustrate such misdeeds. Welfare campaigner Miss Emily Hobhouse heard rumours of what was afoot and determined to go out there to see for herself. The British Army, with years of experience in recognizing trouble when they saw it coming over the horizon, tried to stop her but fortunately her cousin Colonel Neil Farridge was one of the officers out there and he helped her to first reach the Cape and then to see inside many of the camps. Her reports were both accurate and devastating.

Naturally the Army was not pleased but they could not stop a determined woman. However when Colonel Farridge sustained a slight injury they immediately invalided him back to England. There was even talk of him being cashiered out of the service on some flimsy pretext but the Hobhouses were an influential family and one of them passed on the story to the King himself. He had a Word with the Army chiefs and Colonel Farridge was given the job that he had at the time of this story, passing judgement on important army matters. I knew that Sherlock had his suspicions about what was behind these allegations, and that he strongly suspected that the government was to its further discredit involved somewhere along the line.

The word that you are looking for, gentle reader, is 'correct'.

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My giraffe of a brother stood up, looking even taller in those smart clothes and dreadful wig. I wondered idly if I might get a chance to put itching-powder in it latter only for some tousle-headed bastard of a mind-reader to prod me and shake his head. Damnation, I had no fun!

Maybe later. There had to be a spare room around this place somewhere...

“Please state your full name and current employment for the record.”

The dark-haired fellow at the witness stand was in military uniform, about thirty years of age and had what I would have described as a faded tan. He looked nervous but I supposed that most people giving evidence usually did whether they themselves were guilty or no.

“Lieutenant Thomas Wylam of the Third Chilterns Foot, sir.”

“Are you currently on active service?” Stevie asked.

“Not militarily, sir”, the man said smartly. “I was invalided out five years ago – the Sudan – after a shell burst close by the camp where I had been stationed and I lost fifty per cent of the vision in my left eye. My then commanding officer Colonel Justinian secured me a position working for the War Office, transporting official documents.”

“Please explain to the court how this 'transportation' takes place”, Stevie said.

“The British Army often wishes to know the thoughts of its retired and elder colonels on certain important matters”, Lieutenant Wylam explained. “My job is to courier documents to these gentlemen's houses and to then bring them and any notes that they wish to provide back. I take documents to the homes of a number of gentlemen including Colonel Farridge, whose house is in Mayfair.”

_(This was, as I am sure my readers have worked out, the same service for which our friend Mr. Cecil Forrester worked. As I explained then however the documents conveyed in this case were far more important, hence all the additional precautions)._

“Could not these documents have been sent by a regular courier service?” Stevie asked.

“I have always supposed that they were too important to be”, the lieutenant said. “Naturally I never saw them myself; that would have been quite improper. Each time I was called, for I was given a brief-case with a combination lock on it. I was told that it was set so that there were one thousand possible combinations and trying to open it with an incorrect one would jam the mechanism so that it could then only be unlocked by a special key kept in the Office. It was explained to me that there was a different case and combination for each recipient and that the combinations were changed from time to time for extra security.”

Stevie turned to the judge.

“I am as you are aware restricted as to what I can say because of national security, Your Honour”, he said, “but the prosecution and I have agreed that although the lieutenant transported documents to some six different gentlemen during that week, only Colonel Farridge received the ones pertinent to this case. The subject also cannot be disclosed but it involved matters concerning a Scottish military base, which is why Scots law is also at issue.”

“Quite”, the judge said (he looked about a hundred and five, I thought). “Pray proceed, Mr. Watson.”

Stevie turned back to the lieutenant.

“When you arrive at Colonel Farridge's Mayfair house, what usually happens?” 

“I should have made clear that the suitcase is also handcuffed to me”, the lieutenant said apologetically. “The colonel has the key to unlock the cuffs. A footman shows me to his study and I wait on the bench outside for the colonel. He unlocks the cuffs and I then wait while he enters the study and opens the case. That way I do not see the combination, sir.”

“It all sounds quite sensible”, Stevie said. “What next?”

“He checks the documents to confirm that they are what he was expecting, then comes out and thanks me”, the lieutenant said. “One of two thing then happens. If he wishes to spend only a short time on what I have brought he sends me downstairs for some refreshment; that usually lasts no longer than half an hour. If he wishes for more time he tells me how long he thinks that he will need to read through and respond to them, and we fix a date for my return. Either way, when we are finished he secures the case to me and I return to the War Office.”

“You do not leave the empty case with him?” my brother asked.

“No, sir. Upon returning to the Office they check that it is the correct case then unlock it, taking it away. I do not know where it goes; I always leave the room immediately the cuffs are removed.”

“So there is no way for anyone to gain access to those documents in between the War Office and the Colonel's house?” Stevie asked.

The lieutenant looked unhappy but nodded.

“That is correct, sir.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.”

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The prosecution lawyer, a nasty piece of work called Mr. Osborne who had a most unfortunate nasal whine, wasted everyone's time by asking much the same questions as Stevie to the evident annoyance of the judge. Next up was a servant of some sort, by name of Mr. Pelham Johnston. He was a fellow of about forty years of age; thin, blond and visibly nervous, even more so than the lieutenant had been.

“You are the valet to Colonel Farridge?”

“I am, sir.”

“For how long have you been in that post?”

“For the past three years, sir.”

“Do you ever attend the colonel in his study?”

 _“No sir!”_ the valet said firmly. 

I was surprised at his vehemence, as clearly were several other people.

“Why not?” Stevie asked.

The study is where the master attends to his Private Matters, sir”, the valet said. “The master may of course ring for me if he needs me while he is in there, but he never has done during my service. There was one time last year when he chanced to meet me at the door and passed me a message that he needed to have sent; he usually summons a footman for that. But I did not enter the room on that occasion.”

“Does _anyone_ enter the room apart from the maid?” Stevie asked.

“The colonel will not even allow the maid in there, sir”, the butler said. “He cleans it himself.”

“That _is_ unusual”, Stevie said. “Tell me, what rooms lie either side of the study?”

“The room is in a corner position, sir”, the valet said. “The library adjoins it to the west and the smoking-room to the north. Neither is used in the house to any great extent which allows the master to have his peace and quiet. The doors through to both are kept locked and only the master has the keys. There is also what they call a French door out to the garden, but that too is kept locked and the master has had an alarm fitted to it. He also tests it regularly; I know that because it is very loud.”

“He seems to have thought of everything”, Stevie smiled. “Thank you.”

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“You are Mrs. Genevieve Farridge?”

The middle-aged lady at the stand looked, I thought, the archetypal military wife. She had something of her accused husband's military bearing but was clearly worried. Then again, her husband was on trial for his life.

“Yes, sir”, she said, her fingers tapping restlessly on the dock.

“Mrs. Farridge”, Stevie said, “I only have a few questions for you at this point in the proceedings although I may need to ask you some more later. Do you have a key to your husband's study?”

She shook her head. 

“Neil insists that he alone has access to that room”, she said, “as it is where he attends to important matters.”

“We have learned that the study is next door to the smoking-room”, Stevie said. “Does your husband not use the latter for smoking?”

She shook her head.

“”It is quite cold because it only has a small fire”, she explained. “He prefers to stay in his study where the fire is much larger. Those cigars are quite dreadful; I will not allow him to smoke them anywhere else in the house!”

I was just thinking 'whipped' when I caught Sherlock eyeing me. I gulped.

“But what if he loses his keys?” Stevie asked.

“I think he once said that a friend has a spare set”, she said. “I do not know which friend; we have several military acquaintances in the area. Or it may be someone at the Office.”

“Thank you”, Stevie smiled.

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There were gasps of shock when the next witness took the stand and even the elderly judge managed a sharp raising of his eyebrows. It was not so much the bright orange mechanic's overalls as who was wearing them. 

“Miss Clementine St. Leger”, Stevie smiled. “Please state your occupation.”

“I work as a secretary for Swordland's, a private information agency”, she said. 

_That was stretching the truth a bit for someone who had just sworn on the Good Book,_ I thought. Miss St. Leger pretty much _was_ Swordland's.

“Please tell the court what happened three weeks ago to this day.”

“My friend and acquaintance Mr. Sherlock Holmes asked me to assist on the alleged blackmailing of Colonel Neil Farridge by one Miss Ruby Diamond”, she said. “He entertained a certain idea about this lady but required information to back up his hypothesis.”

“Objection!” Mr. Osborne shouted rising to his feet. “Unsubstantiated guesswork on the witness's part.”

“Overruled”, the judge said dryly. “Carry on, Mr. Watson.”

“What did you tell Mr. Holmes?” Stevie asked.

“I was able to provide a list of dates and times when Miss Diamond was seen entering and leaving her London house”, Miss St. Leger said. “I was also asked to provide information about the movements of a certain other person in whom Mr. Holmes was interested. He believed that a pattern would emerge as a result and, being him, he was of course correct.”

“Show-off!” I muttered. Sherlock sniggered softly.

“Thank you, Miss St. Leger.”

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The nasal prosecution lawyer tried to question Miss St. Leger but he most definitely came off worse, and from the knowing look that she gave him and the way that he shuddered I wondered what she had on the fellow. Hopefully something bad!

Next up was a large lady who barely fitted into the dock, dressed for some reason in a medium-sized yellow tent. Stevie shuffled his notes.

“Mrs. Alice Quarley, you are the housekeeper at Colonel Farridge's London house?”

I thought that this lady might be a decent witness but then she caught sight of Sherlock and promptly simpered at him, then followed it up with a loud sigh. Minus ten points straight away! 

Stevie coughed to regain her attention.

“Apart from servants, who lives at the house?”

“Colonel Farridge, Mrs. Farridge, their youngest son Mr. Daniel and until just before the Incident their daughter Miss Penelope, sir”, the housekeeper said. “The three eldest sons have all married and moved out, and Miss Penelope went away to finishing school where she is doing _very_ well.”

I smiled to myself at the pride of a servant in her master's daughter.

“I see that the young gentlemen are all serving our Empire overseas”, Stevie said. “I would like to ask you about the events of Friday, April the twelfth; it was the day that the city had that sudden heavy snowfall if that helps. I believe that Lieutenant Wylam came to the house?”

“He did, sir. To see the master.”

“Please tell us in your own words what happened.”

“The gentleman arrived at ten o' clock, sir, just as the maids were changing over. I was downstairs of course, but sometimes the master wants to look over the things brought to him and I suppose send a reply back through the lieutenant.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Not often, sir. But it did this time.”

“How did you know this if you were downstairs?” Stevie asked.

“When it does happen, the colonel always sends the lieutenant down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a cake”, she explained. “He is very good like that. The lieutenant was with me for about half an hour which was pretty much as usual, then the colonel sent for him to come back.”

“Thank you, madam.”

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Inspector Baldur's impressive form stood tall in the witness-stand. I was quietly pleased that some of the ladies in the public gallery simpered at him, too. He obviously caught them doing it and blushed fiercely. 

“Please tell us what you know about a Miss Ruby Diamond”, Stevie said.

“Very little, sir”, the inspector admitted. “We think that she arrived in the capital about a year ago and that she may be involved in some form of blackmail. Possibly even espionage.”

“But you have no proof as to that?”

“No, sir. She does not even keep her own staff, employing servants from various agencies and never keeping them for more than a few days at a time. She is often out of town and it is believed that she may come from the United States; that is about all we know. Except that when we went to question her over the blackmailing letters sent to Colonel Farridge.....”

The nasal prosecution lawyer interrupted.

 _“Allegedly_ sent!” he insisted. 

The judge scowled mightily at him.

“Mr. Osborne”, he said heavily, “you will in time be granted the chance to cross-examine this witness. But I do not like it when counsel start interrupting each other's conversations as it delays both the proceedings and my dinner. Kindly refrain!”

The prosecution lawyer sank back. I smiled to myself.

“When we went to question Miss Diamond”, the inspector continued, “she had left the house, apparently for good as it was up for sale. We have made a considerable effort to find her but so far we have not succeeded.”

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The unpleasant prosecution lawyer made quite plain that he considered the blackmail letters to have been written by the colonel or an associate to cover his alleged selling of secrets to a Foreign Power, but he could not get anything out of the inspector. Next up was the colonel's youngest son Daniel, an unprepossessing blond youth of about seventeen years of age.

“Mr. Farridge”, Stevie smiled, and I knew instinctively that he had something on the boy. “Do you happen to know a lady called Miss Angela Bruce?”

The boy went pale.

“Um, maybe?”

“Either you know the lady or you do not!” Stevie snapped. “Do you know her?”

The young man seemed to be finding the floor in the witness-stand quite fascinating.

“Yes, sir”, he said miserably.

“Miss Bruce is a maid at Tolworth House, the London home of the War Office minister Lord Ewell”, Stevie said to the judge. “And Lord Ewell happens to be the very friend with whom Colonel Farridge has deposited his sole set of spare keys!”

He turned back to the trembling witness.

“Young sir, I have to say that it is stretching the mathematical laws of probability not just that someone in your position should be seeing a maid but, by an _amazing_ alignment of the Fates, that it should be a maid at the house of the one person with a key to the study from which the papers may have been taken....”

I saw Mr. Osborne rising to his feet to object again but the judge gave him such a mighty scowl that he subsided without speaking. Stevie stared hard at the witness who seemed to shrink back before him.

“I swear that I have never been inside her house!” he said quickly.

“But you did learn that Lord Ewell had the spare key set?” Stevie pressed.

The young man gulped, and nodded.

“Please speak for the record”, the judge pressed him.

“Yes sir. I knew.” 

I felt rather sorry for the fellow. Stevie leaned forward.

_“To whom did you impart this information?”_

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It was damnably unfair of Sherlock to take the witness-stand not looking like someone who had been thoroughly ravished in a small side-room of London's major court, especially as he was someone who had been thoroughly ravished in a small side-room of London's major court. Besides it had been totally his own fault; he knew what wearing that blue waistcoat did to my limited (as in non-existent) self-control when presented with six foot of hunky gorgeousness! To add to my woes virtually every female in the public gallery – and even the court secretary who was sixty if she was a day – were all simpering at him! Talk about a bloody chorus line!

“Thank you for coming today, Mr. Holmes”, Stevie smiled. “I would like you to tell us about your recent investigation into a Miss Ruby Diamond.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I was asked to investigate the truth or not of allegations that Colonel Neil Farridge had used his position to sell government secrets to a Foreign Power.”

“Who asked you?” Stevie pressed at once. “Miss St. Leger?”

Sherlock smiled.

“As I am sure you yourself so often do, Mr. Watson, I must decline to answer that question on the grounds of client confidentiality. I will say however that it was I who approached Miss St. Leger for assistance in this case, and that my initial inquiries suggested that a certain Foreign Power that is increasingly hostile towards the Empire had indeed acquired information of late, of the sort that His Majesty's Government would most likely _not_ wish it to be in possession of.”

“It was suggested to you that Colonel Farridge had been blackmailed into selling this information, that act being perpetrated by one Miss Ruby Diamond?”

“It was.”

“Did your investigations confirm that?”

“Yes and no.”

There was a puzzled silence in the court.

“Mr. Holmes”, the judge said slowly, “either Miss Diamond did blackmail the accused or she did not. Which was it?”

“That is a difficult question to answer, my lord”, Sherlock said, “bearing in mind that I have just sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Initially I was inclined to think that Miss Diamond had indeed blackmailed the colonel. My investigations however soon showed there to be a not insignificant problem with that hypothesis. To wit, 'Miss Diamond' did not exist!”

This time the silence was a shocked one.

“What are you saying, sir?” the judge asked.

“What struck me about this case”, Sherlock said, “was the _lack_ of possibilities. In many of my cases there are any number of possible outcomes at the start and I have to remove the false ones until I am left with the correct one. As my friend the doctor correctly reports me as saying; once one has eliminated the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, _must_ be the truth.”

“Clearly the information was reaching the hostile Foreign Power; there was no doubt about that. I was fortunate in that I have certain government contacts so I was able to confirm as to what that information was. I will not of course go into details but I satisfied myself that the documents sent between the War Office and Colonel Farridge were indeed the ones being leaked. But by whom?”

“I first considered Lieutenant Wylam, but the security measures made it quite impossible for him to get at the messages in any way. The War Office timed his departure from their building and the colonel recorded the time of his arrival. I took the precaution of undertaking the same journey myself and there was no lost time to account for let alone the fact that he had no way of opening the case, undetected or not. Hence the theft had to be happening _inside_ the colonel's house.”

“I next considered young Mr. Daniel Farridge, especially given his seeing a maid at the house of the one person with his father's spare key set. That seemed as has been said a most unlikely coincidence. But I have a good understanding of a man's character and, for all his failings, Mr. Farridge shares his father's patriotism. He would not betray his country. Yet someone in that house did.”

Sherlock paused.

“The key to my understanding this case was in a question that I first posed to young Mr. Farridge a short while back. This was one of those instances when the information was, quite literally, hidden in plain sight. His original answer to me was that he had told no-one about Miss Bruce, but when pressed he added the rider 'only my parents'.”

“I developed an alternative hypothesis based on someone else. Miss St. Leger was essential to my investigations and as she said, she provided me with a timeline of two things; the comings and goings of the mysterious Miss Diamond at her house – _and the comings and goings of Mrs. Genevieve Farridge at hers!”_

There was an audible gasp in the court, and I was not the only person to turn their gaze onto the very empty seat near to the colonel's own. Sherlock smiled.

“I alerted Inspector Baldur to wait outside the court”, he said. “Mrs. Farridge told her husband that she needed to step out for some reason but would be back in time for this session. Instead she went home, packed a bag with her jewellery and ordered a cab to take her down to the docks. Doubtless she was more than a little surprised to get into that cab and find the inspector waiting for her!”

“Silence in court!” the judge ordered as a babble of excited voices broke out. Sherlock waited for calm before continuing.

“Mr. Daniel Farridge was innocent of any _intent,_ but when he told his mother about his seeing the maid of the friend who held the keys she saw her opportunity. In any investigation, suspicion would therefore fall on the luckless boy. We were told that the colonel kept his own keys on him at all times – so obviously the only time that he would not have it was when he was in bed with his lady wife and the keys would be in or on his bedside cabinet. She obtained a copy and then set about enriching herself by selling our Nation's secrets to our enemies. Naturally it could not be for long but she planned that when the ramp was exposed she could easily pin the blame on her husband who, it seemed, was the only person with access to the documents. Or as it turned out her unfortunate son.”

I noticed how Colonel Farridge had gone quite pale. I felt dreadfully sorry for him.

“She created the fake persona of 'Miss Ruby Diamond'”, Sherlock continued, “and spent some of her ill-gotten gains hiring a house and servants to create London's new blackmailer-in-chief. However the list of Mrs. Farridge's and Miss Diamond's appearances show that they were one and the same woman. There is also the signature that she used to obtain the servants; a fake one but the actual handwriting is identical.”

“As she had foreseen the British government soon realizes that there is a leak so Mrs. Farridge makes 'Miss Diamond' vanish into thin air, leaving her husband and possibly even her own son to shoulder the blame. She will be able to live comfortably off his money because everyone will feel sorry for the 'poor betrayed widow' – who most assuredly would have sought out a ship headed for a certain hostile Foreign Power had she made the docks today.”

I smiled. My man was so smart.

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The following day we were back in Baker Street, the case against Colonel Farridge having been dropped. I might have thought that that was that but Sherlock told me that we were expecting a visit from a certain unpleasant lounge-lizard of a brother now out of hospital after his recent other lizard experience, and that that was important in some way. I had not wanted to have to meet the pitiful excrescence again so soon but he had 'persuaded' me, which was why I was currently sat on two cushions.

The tiresome annoyance swept into the room and sat down heavily in the fireside chair. 

“I do hope that this is important, Sher.... lock”, he said crossly. “The government is far from happy over this Farridge case.”

Sherlock smiled beatifically at him.

“It concerns one of your secretaries, Miss Josephine Moore”, he said calmly. “She will be leaving your employment today, without a reference.”

His brother looked at him in surprise.

“Why?” he demanded. “She is an excellent worker!”

“She also came up with the idea for the entrapment and prosecution of Colonel Farridge”, Sherlock said dryly. “Specifically, using it to slip out several pieces of bad economic news which were successfully buried by the trial coverage. Even although the trial ended in failure, I am sure that the government is pleased to have avoided a whole load of bad publicity.”

“You cannot know that!” his brother scoffed.

Sherlock smiled and gestured to a piece of paper on the desk next to him.

“The list of seventeen news stories which were slipped out on consecutive days of the trial”, he said airily. “Praise for Miss Moore for thinking up this diabolical scheme – _and_ for her superior in her department. You, Randall.”

The lounge-lizard shot to his feet.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he demanded.

“The same place that I found receipts of your taking her to one of London's most expensive hotels for 'discussions'”, Sherlock said. “If she is not out of your department by sunset then copies will be sent to Muriel. _And Mother!”_

Our visitor paled.

“You bastard!” he ground out.

“Only when dealing with you”, Sherlock said equably. “Because it takes one to know one!”

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It was the following day, and we were still marking our double victory in the case after Sherlock had had Miss Moore's sacking confirmed. I groaned as my man thrust into me for Lord alone knew what number of times. How on earth did he have the stamina to pin my legs back and keep going and going and.....

Without warning our door flew open. I was horrified; everyone in the house knew full well what the red marker on the door meant!

“Hullo John”, came my brother's cheerful voice. “I just wanted to oh my Lord no no no no no no no no _no!_ ”

I do not think that I had ever seen my brother move so fast in his entire life. We could still hear the keening sound as he all but fell down the stairs and the eventual bang of the front door as he made it to the safety of the street. 

“We need to get a better locking system”, Sherlock said absent-mindedly.

My little brother had just seen me like this and he was worried about hardware purchases? I opened my mouth to complain but he raised me just high enough to catch my prostate and my objections died a death, along with my few remaining senses. 

I would send Stevie an apology letter. Some time. Maybe.

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	17. Interlude: Call For Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1902\. A scheming twin schemes.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherrinford Holmes, Esquire]_

If I do have a failing, it is that just occasionally I give vent to my cruel streak (although only when Vic gives his permission and is not going up any of his beloved mountains any time soon, as it always leaves him incapable of walking). So perhaps it was arguably rather cruel of me to call on my half-brother Carl when I knew he was just finishing a long, hard weekend with his lover Danny. And the latter was just finishing him!

Danny grinned as he showed me into his lover's room.

“He's just about up to talking, Mr. Holmes sir”, he said. “I put in our largest dildo to keep him open, and I'll finish him off once you're gone.”

I sighed; the seventies generation were terrible. Although from the dazed look I got from my half-brother, he was quite happy with that state of affairs. Either that or he was on drugs; it was hard to tell.

“I am here about Mr. de Klerk”, I said, sitting down and noting that Carl was keeping very still despite his lover cuddling him. “Danny's friend.”

“I did not want to trouble Sherlock”, Carl said, “especially as he had that long and draining court case last month.”

“Unfortunately I know how he celebrated his 'victory'”, I sighed. “I cannot tell you why, but you should ask for Sherlock's help and tomorrow. He may be tired but when it comes to solving crimes he still has it.”

“Like my solid soldier”, Mr. Hunter grinned. “He still has it – and it about to get it too!”

Carl shuddered but, I noted, did not object.

“I will see him, I promise”, he said.

“Once I am done with him!” Mr. Hunter grinned.

“I shall see myself out”, I smiled. “Be gentle with him, Danny – I need him to make the monumental trek round to Baker Street.”

“I can arrange a bath-chair if needed!” the saucy young fellow grinned darkly.

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I heard the yelp before I was even out of the door, and grinned. This 'case' would be just what Sherlock needed – and if I bought a supersized dildo for my vigorous Vic, that would be just what he needed too. _He was certainly going to get it!_

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	18. Case 313: The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. Sherlock's second 'vampire' case in which someone bites off rather more than they can chew. And John finds Heaven on the Sussex Downs.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was the end of a pleasantly warm June day. Sherlock and I had just returned from another amazing technological experience, namely a visit to a cinematographic theatre where they had shown several short 'films'. Of course these had been around for some years – I still remembered (because 'someone' would not let me forget!) that short clip of the train seeming to rush out of the screen which had perhaps ever so slightly unnerved me and maybe caused me to utter an almost inaudible expression of surprise – but now they were several minutes long rather than the earlier seconds-long efforts. Next thing we knew they would have the things in people's front rooms, and what with those blasted new 'telephones' that were appearing up and down the country there would be an end to peace in an Englishman's home! I much preferred a good book, which reminded me; I had to cash the generous cheque I had received from the 'Strand' magazine for the Thor Bridge case which had again received many positive reviews. My publishers were for once being allowed to publish it in book form almost immediately after, profits from the sales going towards the rebuilding and extension of Sherlock's orphanage. It felt wonderful to be so philanthropically rich.

There was a telegram waiting for us when we arrived home. Sherlock read it then passed it over to me. I read it aloud:

“'The owner of Dibley Hall wishes to avail himself of the services of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson concerning recent vampiric occurrences in the vicinity. An appointment has been scheduled at eleven o' clock tomorrow morning (the seventeenth). No reply is required.'”

“A command”, my friend smiled.

“Presumptuous, I would say”, I remarked shrugging off my summer coat. The hot spell had given rise to frequent squally showers and we had only narrowly avoided being caught by one. 

“The presumption he makes is that we will be curious enough to attend to find out what he wants”, Sherlock said. He looked at me hopefully. “I do not suppose you thought.....”

“Mrs. Rockland will be sending coffee up in a few minutes”, I said with a smile. “I spoke to her before we left this evening.”

He smiled back at me then went over to the bookcase.

“The telegram comes from the town of Robertsbridge which is in Sussex”, he said, pulling out a Bradshaw. “That is where they were building the railway to Tenterden where we solved that archaeology case some time back; it is not even close to being finished yet despite only being a light railway. Let us see what we can glean on the place.”

He leafed through the book for a few moments before putting it down.

“Not much help”, he sighed. “One presumes that this missive is from the new owner.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Bradshaw says that Dibley Hall which lies some two miles from Robertsbridge is in the possession of the Willenden family”, he said. “However I happen to know that that is incorrect. My cousin Luke mentioned several important people – in the government's eyes, at least – who had been ruined by the collapse of a South African mining company a few months back and I remember that Mr. Thomas Willenden was one of them. One presumes that he must have had to sell his ancestral home; I wonder who bought it?”

“Are we going down tomorrow then?” I asked.

“I think that we are”, he said looking across at me. “Do you not think that we should?”

I felt uneasy, and it took some little thought before I realized as to just why.

“This person must know that you could find out their identity given time”, he said. “Yet they have chosen to call at such short notice that you do not have that option. I do not like it.”

“If you are unsure then I can decline, or at least put them off”, he offered. 

I sighed and shook my head.

“No, we will go”, I said. “But armed. And as it is a vampire I will see if I have any silver bullets!”

Fortunately Mrs. Rockland arrived with the coffee at that moment. It never ceased to amaze me how much of the stuff my friend got through. If _he_ was ever the victim of a vampire attack the poor creature would probably find itself imbibing as much coffee as blood, I was sure!

_Just as I was sure that the head-shaking thing was still damn annoying!_

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It was my bad luck that the direct route between London and Robertsbridge passed through the town of Tonbridge, on whose station platforms I had so nearly lost my dear friend but a short time ago. I said nothing as the train waited an absurdly long time for no good reason but Sherlock clearly knew the reason for my unease and reached a reassuring hand across the compartment to take mine. I smiled at him.

We arrived at Robertsbridge Station at just after one o' clock, our train having been delayed by a minor landslip outside Wadhurst, and took a cab the short distance to the hall. The building turned out to be not as large as I had expected, being merely the largest house in Dibley village and set a little apart from the other houses in its own copious gardens. Fortunately the large black iron gates were open presumably in anticipation of our arrival and our cabbie dropped us outside the front door and said he would be 'down the pub' when we were finished.

Sherlock knocked at the door and a mournful-looking footman opened it almost at once. Having looked at us as if we were something the cat might have dragged in, he sighed in a put-upon manner and stood back to let us in. We found ourselves in a large entrance-hall and he took our hats and coats before escorting us to the waiting-room; apparently we were not considered worthy enough for him to waste actual words on. I would have remarked on the matter to my friend but he seemed particularly taken with the coat-stand that the footman had placed our items on so I thought it best not to interrupt him. If he wished to commune with the local furniture then so be it.

Finally the footman returned and led us to a small study into which we were ushered. He did not follow us in or even announce us which I also thought odd.

“Gentlemen, please be seated.”

The voice came from a dark-haired gentleman sat in one of the fireside chairs. He was stroking a large dog of indeterminate breed, and I immediately thought back to the late Cerberus compared to whom this dog was just as ugly (and, unfortunately, twice as large!). The man himself was either heavily tanned or possibly of mixed birth; in the dim firelight it was hard to tell. As was his age; he could have been anything from twenty-five to forty. On closer inspection I also noted that his hair was actually dark blond.

My friend sat in the chair opposite and I stood behind him. The fact that I had a large solid object between myself and the hearth-monster was just coincidence.

Sherlock just looked at me. _I hated it when he did that!_

“Thank you for coming”, our host said. “My name is Guy de Klerk and I purchased this property some months back. It was a thriving estate complete with its own sawmill and other industries, but someone is attempting to destroy it. I have asked you here today to see if you would be prepared to investigate the matter for me.”

His accent was possibly Dutch, which with his name might suggest that he was a Boer. That, with the drawn out embers of the Boer War, would not have gone down well in England around this time. The mighty British Empire's attempts to advance north from the Cape Colony had been frustrated two decades back by the little Dutch republics of Transvaal† and the Orange Free State, and popular opinion was that the _causus belli_ for both wars had been simple greed, along with fears that the republics might combine and/or obtain a sea outlet through southern Portuguese East Africa and become a major regional power that would frustrate the on-off dream of a British-dominated Cape-Cairo axis across the Dark Continent. Kaiser Wilhelm's support for them had also raised hackles in London as if Anglo-German relations needed any worsening. I could well imagine that someone like Mr. de Klerk might not be welcome, especially in a country area like this.

“I shall consider it”, Sherlock said. “Please tell me what has happened. _All_ the details, if you please.”

I looked at him in surprise. There seemed to be an implication in his tone that he was expecting our potential client to either lie or withhold information. People did do that of course, but I did not see any reason for such an assumption as of yet.

“As you may know”, our host began, “I purchased this house from the previous owner Mr. Thomas Willenden. His family have been in Sussex since the Norman Conquest and have lived in the Hall since the time of the great Elizabeth. However he had invested heavily in one mining company in particular that was ruined in the war between my people and his. I call them my people although I have lived in England – originally Mayfield, not far from here – for the past five years, managing my investments at a distance. It is the opinion of the people round here that I inveigled Mr. Willenden into the financial disaster that befell him, although we had no dealings before this and his investment decisions were all his own. Because of that I understand that they refer to me as 'The Sussex Vampire'.”

“Hence the vampiric reference”, Sherlock said, nodding. “Please continue.”

“It is not just that”, he said. “There have been two instances of people being attacked and robbed in the area. In both cases the victims were rendered unconscious with an attack from behind, and in both cases bite marks were found on their bodies afterwards. Both survived.”

“Surely the locals cannot think you have turned to vampirism?” I asked, surprised. He turned to me.

“Doctor”, he said heavily, “both cases occurred while I was away from the house. I rarely leave it so naturally people think it strange that I happened to be out on both days. Unfortunately at both times I was walking back from the station so I did not have an alibi.”

“You walk from the station?” I asked, even more surprised. This fellow was clearly rich enough to afford a carriage for what had been at least a two-mile journey. He nodded.

“My London doctor, Mr. Petts of Harley Street, suggested moderate exercise bearing in mind I spend much time at home poring over my investments.”

I nodded and looked expectantly at Sherlock.

“Who were the victims of this 'vampire'?” he asked.

“The first was Molly Smith, a serving-girl at the Feathers”, our host said. “She had been taking a short-cut through the churchyard and she described someone walking towards her who could have been me or several dozen other fellows. The man passed her then attacked from behind, knocking her unconscious. The second was Jeb Watkins the blacksmith. He is married to Mr. Willenden's niece Florence if I remember rightly, and is as they say built like a brick out-house. Someone came up behind him when he was drunk one evening and knocked him out. Doctor Wollaston in the village said that there had been mild blood loss on each occasion.”

Sherlock nodded. There was a definite pause.

“Is there anything else, sir?” he asked.

“I do not think so”, Mr. de Klerk said.

“Then I am sorry to tell you that we shall not be taking your case.”

I stared at Sherlock in astonishment. 

“May I know why, sir?” Mr. de Klerk asked stiffly.

“A consulting detective requires many things to do his job”, Sherlock said, “but first and foremost of those if the absolute honesty of his client. You have deliberately withheld a piece of information from me. That is unacceptable.”

“Sir I assure you.....” 

“You have five minutes to produce it”, Sherlock interrupted, taking out his pocket-watch. “After that time the doctor and I will be taking the train back to London.”

The silence was palpable, but it was broken by a new voice from behind the screen.

“Always knew that you were a sharp one, Sherlock.”

And out walked... General Carlyon Holmes! I stared at him in astonishment.

“How did you know?” the soldier asked his younger brother curiously.

“The number of silken red-lined high-quality cloaks embossed with a lion impaled with a D-shaped sword is, I suspect, rather low in this part of Sussex”, Sherlock said, smiling slightly at his elder brother's visible embarrassment. “Once I saw that, I recognized your cologne when we entered the room. If you will take a bath in it....”

“Sherlock!”

I was quietly pleased that of all the Holmeses to appear it was the general, especially given his and his cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick's help to me during the terrible times after I had 'lost' Sherlock in Nebraska. They and Sherlock's sister Mrs. Thompson helped make up to humanity for having to suffer the likes of Mycroft, Torver, Randall and Guilford as aspirant members. I had also treated this gentleman's young lover Danny, who most annoyingly had taken to giving Sherlock the same sort of leering looks that his half-brothers did from time to time. It was frankly annoying because Sherlock was _mine!_

I should also add at this point that the kind-hearted general had recently taken our friends Mr. Christopher 'Kristoff' Bond and Mr. Flynn Rider into his employ as footmen, following the vicious acid attack on the latter by the vile Prince Hans of Hartland. That attack had of course curtailed Mr. Rider's work at our friend Sweyn's molly-houses and he had not wished to continue his main job as a clerk, so Sherlock had stepped in to help. Thankfully most of Mr. Rider's scars had healed and even better, news of the attack had 'somehow' (i.e. Miss St. Leger) reached the molly-men in distant Hartland who had extracted their own 'payment' from the villainous prince, who was now in a sanatorium recovering. And hiding.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Because he and Mr. de Klerk are connected in some way”, Sherlock said coolly. “How, exactly?”

The soldier had walked over to where Mr. de Klerk was sat in his chair and stood beside our host.

“Guy's brother was at Churn with Danny”, he explained, “and was his mentor there. He did not tell you because the locals would probably hate him even more if they found out, but by blood Guy is also a Willenden. His great-grandmother went out to the Cape Colony as it was then during the Napoleonic Wars. Danny asked for my help.”

Sherlock grinned. I knew that look.

“Did he get Benji and Lloyd to 'ask' too?” he said innocently.

Judging from the general's fierce blush, his lover's half-brothers had indeed 'asked'. I winced in sympathy; I had treated all three young men and I knew that they were all of them prodigiously endowed. Little wonder that the old soldier looked so battle-weary.

“Shut up!” the fellow scowled, blushing again.

“Of course we shall help”, Sherlock smiled. “You only had to ask, Carl.”

“You know how much I hate doing that!” his brother said. 

“Exactly!”

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“You said that you purchased this property from Mr. Thomas Willenden”, Sherlock said over dinner. “Does he have any family?”

“Unfortunately, he does!” Mr. de Klerk said. The general had left to go back to London after thanking his brother for his help so there were just the three of us (and, unfortunately, the hearth-monster) at dinner. “He has two brothers and a sister, a wife, four children of his own and nine grand-children, plus a wagon-load of nephews and nieces. The village is crawling with them!” 

“Mr. Thomas is head of the family?” Sherlock asked helping himself to potatoes.

“Actually no”, our host said. “That would be his mother Dame Mabel. Now that her son is no longer lord of the manor she once again holds sway over her manifold brood. Think Genghis Khan but with a worse attitude!”

I gulped at that image. Sherlock seemed to be thinking of something. Some time passed before his next question.

“So we are looking for a vampire with restraint”, he smiled. “On another subject, did you inherit the serving staff from Mr. Willenden?” 

“Hardly any of them”, our host said. “Most quit when their master sold to me. The only one who remained was Todman, the butler.”

“Why him?” I wondered. “I always thought butlers were supposed to be among the most loyal of staff?”

“He had had a disagreement with Mr. Willenden over pay”, Mr. de Klerk said. “Fortunately I found it easy enough to bring in help from the other villages, especially from Godwinsford on the other side of the river which has always had a rivalry with Dibley. No Willendens there!”

Sherlock smiled.

“I think that I may see a solution to your little problem, sir”, he said. “But you will need to do exactly as I say, and I do mean _exactly.”_

“I place myself entirely in your capable hands”, our host said.

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We had been given separate albeit adjoining rooms right at the back of the house; I silently thanked my friend's brother for that. Sherlock came through the connecting door and sat on the bed, looking thoughtful. I moved to sit beside him.

“You did not ask our client if he was married”, I pointed out.

“Actually I did”, he said. “That was when the chocolate trifle was served. Doubtless you were distracted somewhat.”

I ventured a pout at that. It had been good trifle and had fully deserved my asking for a second slice. We had better be staying on until the trifle – I meant the case – was finished.

“He is single and seeing a young lady in Godwinsford”, Sherlock said with another irritating smile. “Which in itself is another incentive to solve the case; her family would hardly sanction their union with a cloud of suspicion hanging over a prospective in-law.”

“So there may be another generation of blood Willendens here soon”, I mused. “The joys of children.”

We were both silent for a time, I thinking of my unacknowledged son Master Ivan Leeds and Sherlock doubtless of his lost son George. I wondered.... 

“Such a thing would have been impossible”, he said with a sigh, once again showing his predictable if always disconcerting mind-reading abilities. “I knew that a long time ago.”

“When?” I asked curiously. He looked across at me.

“About twenty-seven years ago when I came back to my college rooms and found a devilishly-handsome young student waiting for me”, he said his blue eyes boring into mine. “I knew that very moment. It was just a matter of time.”

I smiled.

“Of course when I had you pinned to the floor....” he teased.

I scowled at him.

“But you waited twenty years before... you know”, I said.

“Before I waved my hand about in a peculiar manner?” smiled someone who ran the risk of not getting laid that night. I scowled at him.

“You know what I mean!” I grumbled.

“I knew from the start that my talents would earn me all sorts of dangerous enemies”, he sighed. “The odds of me making old bones seemed so small as to be incalculable. Yet your righteousness and good nature worked past my poor defences and I was so happy to exchange rings with you on that balcony in Verona, and to have our union blessed in Gretna. Society is not yet prepared to recognize what we are to each other, John, but we are as married as any couple. Always and forever.”

I kissed his neck and began to work his shirt off of him. He sighed contentedly. I gently stood him up and removed his trousers and pants then eased his socks off. He stood there before me in all his naked glory and I silently thanked God for letting me have this before he repeated the process with me sliding my shirt off and running his hands all over my chest, making me shudder. He eased my trousers off then my socks and underwear until I was as naked as he was. Then he took me and gently laid me down on the bed before climbing in quietly beside me.

This was.... nice. No frantic love-making, no manic rush to orgasm, no haste at all. This was two men in their late forties (I had better remind myself of that as I had now barely six months before That Birthday) holding each other and quietly worshipping each other's bodies. I could have grown a little nervous of how my body was ageing of late; that irritating bulge above my cock refused to quite disappear despite my frequent exercising (one way or another) and I always felt rather plain in contrast to Sherlock who remained as gloriously muscled as he had ever been. Yet the way he uttered quiet prayers of thanks when working his way all over me and especially the way he tended to me when he knew I was feeling a little low, that made him truly magnificent. 

He eased himself on top of me and began rubbing our bodies together, our cocks growing rapidly erect with all the friction. I groaned with pleasure and let him take me along for the ride. I do not know how long it was before he finally came and I followed him just seconds later. He gently wiped us both down before snuggling in behind me, holding me tight. I fell asleep truly happy and wishing that this could last forever.

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The following morning Sherlock told me that he had to sort certain things out in London for a day or two but that he would return as soon as he could, and he wanted me to stay with Mr. de Klerk whom he instructed not to leave the house for anything short of a major fire. 

It was during my friend's brief absence that an event occurred that would change my life, although I could not have realized it at the time. Mr. de Klerk had intended to take some important papers to his lawyer in Polegate on the day of Sherlock's absence so I offered to go in his stead even though it involved a change of trains at Hastings. When I reached Polegate I found that the lawyer was not at work that week, but as Mr. de Klerk had asked that I deliver the papers in person I decided to hire a carriage and drive to Berwick to find him at home (there was a station serving that village on the main line but the service was infrequent and I was advised that the village lay over a mile from it). 

I found the lawyer easily enough and duly handed over the papers, then decided to explore the area a little. Berwick lay on the northern flank of the South Downs, which I had thought so beautiful when we had had that case concerning the Blue Carbuncle quite some miles to the west in Partridge Green. I drove through Alfriston which was a charming little English village and having crossed the downs reached the sea at Seaford, which was..... well, as the saying goes, one does not get a coconut every time. I then took a different road back north which took me to an even higher point overlooking the villages of Chuffingden and Alciston. The former looked the more interesting from a distance so I kept on towards it.

Chuffingden was indeed a beautiful place; as its name suggested it was set in its own little dean and I loved it on sight. Rather than just return to Polegate I decided to settle for a later train and to have lunch at the thatched pub – the oddly-named Majestic Duck – and explore the place a little. The road through the village was deserted and there was a charming little Saxon church as well as a pond and a couple of shops. It really was England at its best.

After spending a little time in the Norman church on the edge of the village I came out and chanced to look up. On the gently-rising hill to the north a single cottage was slumbering in the afternoon sunshine, smoke rising lazily from its chimney. It was an idyllic picture and I almost wished that I was possessed of the artistic talent to commit the scene to paper so as to preserve it forever. I mentioned my experience to Sherlock on his return that evening but otherwise thought nothing more of it. 

He, as it turned out, did.

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Fortunately Sherlock was back after just one night away, and even more fortunately I got to finish off that trifle (it would have spoiled otherwise). My friend seemed pleased with whatever he had accomplished but insisted that it was best if he told us nothing as yet. That evening passed quietly and we went to bed to the sound of a late summer storm rolling across the downs.

The following day there was no sign of our host. I stumbled into breakfast to find Sherlock there already sipping what had to have been his third coffee from his alertness. 

“Ah, Todman”, Sherlock said when the butler deposited the morning mail, “your master said to tell you he will be away in London all day. He will return by the seven o' clock train but he plans to walk back from Robertsbridge as usual. He said not to send the carriage even if it rains.”

“Very good, sir”, the butler said gravely. He looked about as depressed as the hearth-monster which was clearly miserable without its master around. I was sure that it was looking hungrily at me and had made a point of sitting the other side of my friend from it.

“Our host hopes to pull off a financial coup today”, Sherlock told me, smiling slightly for some reason. “If it all works out he may be spending most of his time in London from now on. That will be all, Todman.”

I would not say that the butler was eavesdropping on our conversation although he was certainly lingering. 

“Oh, and Mr. de Klerk also said that he would like a copy of the 'Telegraph'”, Sherlock called after him, making him jump. “He is meeting someone on the train so he may not have time to get one himself. Is anyone in the house going to the village today? If not, the doctor or I can walk down.”

“I shall make sure that someone fetches one, sir”, the butler said and left. 

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

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The hot weather built up again during the day and that evening the storm broke. As seven o' clock approached Todman brought us drinks and asked if we wanted a carriage sent for Mr. de Klerk anyway but Sherlock demurred, saying that we must respect a fellow's wishes and a little water never hurt anyone. I supposed that he was right in that, although there was rather more than 'a little water' coming down out there. In my opinion ark-building was looking a fair bet! 

Just after nine o' clock there was a loud banging at the front door. A footman went to answer it and shortly after he brought in with two people, a large and angry-looking elderly woman in an unfortunate dark red dress, and a burly, bedraggled village constable. I assumed that they must have taken a carriage from the village but both had still been soused in the short distance to the front door. Sherlock ushered the constable over to the fire and insisted that he remove his wet coat before starting.

“This is Mrs. Mabel Willenden”, the policeman said, “and I am Police Constable Horn. Mrs. Willenden's grand-daughter Mary was attacked tonight and all the signs are that it was the same person as committed the last two attacks. I am sorry to ask this of you, gentlemen, but do either of you know the whereabouts of Mr. de Klerk?”

“Yes”, Sherlock smiled. 

All of us stared at him in surprise. 

“You do?” the constable said, clearly take aback. 

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “I sent him there.”

“Where?”

Sherlock looked at his pocket-watch.

“He has probably just left the station”, he said.

“Wait a minute”, the sergeant said, now clearly as confused as I was. “I was told that he was due back by the seven o' clock train.”

“Who by?” Sherlock asked.

“Pardon?”

“Who told you?” Sherlock asked patiently.

“This is a village, sir”, the constable said patiently. “Everyone knows everyone else's business. That's just the way it is.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “So if you know 'everyone else's business' then you could head over to the station and collect Mr. de Klerk.”

The sergeant looked at him warily, then at me. Something finally twigged.

“Ye Gods you're Doctor Watson!” he said, aghast. “That means you must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes! The detective!”

“Rupert!” the woman barked. “The attack!”

The constable collected himself with an effort. 

“Yes of course”, he said. “Must be headed over to the station to pick up Mr. de Klerk. I will bring him back here.”

“You would be in for a long wait, constable”, Sherlock said airily.

“What?”

“The 'station' that our host should have not long left is in fact a police-station in London”, Sherlock said. “It is run by our good friend, Inspector Baldur. I sent Mr. de Klerk there this morning.”

Once again we all stared at him in confusion.

“Why would you have done that, sir?” the constable asked. 

“Because I wished him to have an unimpeachable alibi for the next attack, which I knew would happen tonight”, Sherlock said. “Being locked in a police cell all day is, I think you would agree, a rather good alibi. The inspector released him at nine o' clock sharp and he is now on his way to spend a most comfortable night at my brother Guilford's latest hotel.”

The constable sat down heavily in a chair. I poured him a stiff drink and was not surprised when he downed it on one shot. I needed one myself. 

“You _knew_ that there would be an attack tonight?” the constable asked.

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “In a way I encouraged it.”

The constable looked like he needed a refill but I served myself first. For medicinal reasons.

“I reasoned that the most likely person behind the attacks would be someone who resented the newcomer in the village”, Sherlock said. He looked hard at the woman standing by the fire. “Who better than the matriarch of the family disinherited by them?”

“I trust you can prove that, _sir!”_ she sneered.

“I am sure that your grand-daughter would not object to an examination by the doctor here”, he said smoothly. “Not the village doctor who like many in the village is 'in your pocket' but by my independent-minded friend. I would wager a guinea that he will find the vampiric puncture wounds to be fake and that there has been no blood loss at all.”

“I will not allow her to be subjected to that!” the woman shouted.

The constable stood up.

“Mabel”, he said slowly, “what have you gone and done this time?”

“Fallen into a trap”, Sherlock said. “I made sure that the butler, her agent who chose to remain inside the house, knew not only of his master's absence, but that this might be the last one for some time thus prompting an 'attack' tonight. Doubtless had you had more time you would have found someone less directly connected with you, but you only had hours before what you thought to be your adversary's return for the last time in months.”

The harridan moved towards him but I was quicker, standing in her way and baring my teeth at her. I thought for one moment she might try to strike me but she hissed an obscenity and turned on her heel, leaving the room in a flurry of crinoline 

“There will be no prosecution”, the constable said dourly. “She may not have driven him out but she has pretty much gotten away with it!”

“I am not so sure about that” Sherlock smiled. “Once our host is returned we shall spend a few days here before returning to London. I think that the non-Willenden residents of Dibley and even more so the villagers of Godwinsford across the valley would welcome some gossip in their daily lives!”

“We are spending some time here?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “Perhaps we can make one or two more trips to the Downs while we are here.”

Lord, I loved him so much!

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_Notes:_   
_† Officially the South African Republic but commonly called the Transvaal, especially after the expanded Cape Colony came to be referred to as the Union of South Africa._

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	19. Interlude: Designs On The Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1901\. Sherlock sets about making his man's dreams come true.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I so owed my brother Carl (I would of course never tell him that as I find overly smug people _quite_ unbearable). On returning to Dibley from London, John told me of Chuffingden, the beautiful village that he had found, and of the cottage high above it. I knew immediately that this was it and that I had found our retirement place, somewhere that we could grow old disgracefully together. Saying that I would like a few more days away from London we stayed with our host and spent some time exploring the area including John's – _our_ village. I could see when we went there just how much he loved the place (despite the rather oddly-named tavern), and one day soon that cottage would be ours.

I was careful not to give anything away but once we were back in London I set about making inquiries as to who owned the cottage. Fortune smiled on me as the unimaginatively named 'Hill Cottage' turned out to be the inheritance of a young gentleman who lived in the North and who planned to sell it when he came of age which, thank the Lord, would be just days after my planned retirement some three years hence. I travelled up to see him and his guardian, and the terms of a sale were agreed although it could not be finalized until he reached his majority. But I could wait. I would just have to be extremely careful in the interim.

The only very slight drawback was there was some legal thing that meant the cottage would not become the legal possession of the young man for another fifteen months, which most annoyingly meant that I could not share my good news with John lest things not work out. But his happiness would be deferred, not denied. I would make sure of that.

I always told John that I was on 'family business' when I was sorting all this out. I was sure that he suspected something as matters appertaining to my relatives usually left me depressed which this time I palpably was not, but my friend knew also that a few of my more 'interesting' contacts were, by their nature, still not inclined to deal with anyone but myself and he had come to accept that. Besides when I anticipated his joy at the surprise that I was planning for him, I felt happier than any man had a right to feel.

I was the luckiest man alive. And one day soon I would have John all to myself. No cases, no family (especially no Randall unless he wanted to experience what shotgun bullets felt like!). Just John, our cottage and the downs. 

Plus one very large reinforced bed!

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End file.
